


Beneath a Heart of Darkness

by OpenPage



Category: 21 Jump Street (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Blow Jobs, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 60
Words: 149,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4804067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenPage/pseuds/OpenPage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Dennis go undercover in a fraternity to investigate alleged abuses during Hell Week. What they endure changes both their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always the Last to Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TorchwoodCardiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TorchwoodCardiff/gifts).



> **Disclaimer: I do not own 21 Jump Street or any the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.**
> 
> **No copyright infringement is intended.**
> 
> **Based on the TV series 21 Jump Street.**

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35568069760/in/datetaken/)

When Doug Penhall entered the bustling operations room of the Jump Street Chapel, he found his gaze immediately drawn to his best friend, Tom Hanson. It was not unusual for him to beeline to Tom when he arrived at work; they always had plenty to talk about, such as baseball, girls, football, girls, hockey, and of course, girls. But what caught his attention on that particular morning was the intensity of Tom’s gaze. With his brow puckered in concentration and his full, bowed lips pursed in a displeased moue, Tom’s stare remained fixed, although on what, Doug had no idea. However, his curiosity was genuinely piqued and forgoing his habitual early morning trip to the coffeemaker, he sauntered over to Tom’s desk, pulled up a chair and sat down. “Whatcha lookin’ at, buddy?”

Without moving a muscle or breaking his gaze, Tom spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Him.”

Doug followed Tom’s line of sight, expecting to see someone acting in a suspicious or inappropriate manner, but all he saw were their coworkers, Dennis Booker and Judy Hoffs chatting amicably next to the water cooler. His expression mirrored Tom’s, and he found himself drawn into the web of intrigue. _“Booker?”_ he queried in a hushed tone, his eyes focusing on the dark-haired officer’s handsome face. “Why? What’d he do?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed into wary slits. “Nothing… _yet._ ”

_“Yet?”_ Doug parroted, his curiosity growing with each passing second. “What is it you _think_ he’s gonna do?”

“Who knows?” Tom muttered, his eyes blazing with mistrust. “But it’s gonna be something that humiliates me, you can count on that.”

There was no mistaking the paranoia in Tom’s voice, and raising his eyebrows, Doug shifted his gaze to his friend. “Okay, I give up. What’s this about?”

Although reluctant to take his eyes off Booker for even a second, Tom eventually turned in Doug’s direction. “He unnerves me,” he confided quietly. “He's always staring at me like he’s plotting his next prank. I don’t trust him.”

Booker’s transfer from Internal Affairs to the Jump Street program a few months before had been both a blessing and a curse. He was an exceptional cop who, like all the officers working at Jump Street, still looked young enough to pass as a teenager. However, because of the circumstances of his arrival—being sent undercover to see if the team were, in fact, guilty of entrapping minors—his acclimation from _official_ nark to _undercover_ nark had been a somewhat bumpy transition. But, even after Tom’s accusations of rape and racism, he had taken it all in his stride and eventually, after working together, Doug, Judy, and Harry had accepted him as one of their own. Only Tom held on to a lingering animosity, his distrust of Booker causing the two men to argue constantly, much to the annoyance of their captain. But Tom could not shake off his genuine dislike of Dennis Booker. As far as he was concerned, the arrogant cop was bad news, and he could not understand why nobody else could see it.

The suspicion in Tom’s eyes coupled with the tension in his body brought an amused, lopsided grin to Doug’s lips, and he could not resist teasing his best friend. “I don't think it's a prank he's plotting, Hanson,” he chuckled knowingly. “I think he has other things planned for you.”

With a childlike innocence that gratified Penhall’s sense of humor even more, Tom’s dark eyes filled with bewilderment. “Huh?”

Unable to contain his mirth any longer, Penhall laughed loudly and clapped Tom forcefully on the back, propelling him forward in his chair. “Aw, c’mon, Tommy, even _you_ can’t be _that_ naïve. Surely you know?”

Tom’s expression quickly turned from confusion to annoyance. “Know _what?_ Jesus, Doug, quit foolin’ around. If you know something about him, you’d better tell me.”

Doug’s eyes sparkled with merriment and placing a companionable arm around Tom, he gave his shoulders a friendly squeeze. “Let’s just say, when you're around, Booker gets a little...”

Unsure of what Doug was talking about, Tom’s brow once again knitted in confusion. “A little _what?”_

Without thinking through the consequences of his actions, Doug blurted out the word with a snort. “Horny.”

Tom’s mouth dropped open, his lips forming a perfect O and pulling away from Doug’s embrace, his eyes grew wide with disbelief and the color drained from his face. “Wh- _what_ did you say?”

It was at the precise moment when Tom’s words stammered from his lips that Doug realized he might have made a mistake. Hanson was not homophobic, but telling a straight man that another man lusted after him was a recipe for disaster, especially when there was bad blood between the two men. It was supposed to be nothing more than a bit of fun, some lighthearted teasing to relieve the tension that often built up when they were on assignment. Going undercover to bust teens and young adults week after week was a necessary but often difficult part of the job, and light relief and good-natured teasing were all part of life at the Chapel. But as Doug took in the look of horror on Tom’s face, he realized he had taken the joke too far—even though what he had said was true—and with a nervous grin, he attempted to defuse the situation in his unique, bumbling way. “Don’t take it personally, Tommy. I’m sure _loads_ of gay guys find you attractive _and_ some straight guys too. Geez, if I swung that way I’d—”

“Booker’s _gay?”_ Tom gasped in a loud whisper, his large, startled eyes portraying his shock.

“Yeah… well, technically he’s bi,” Doug explained before his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I thought you knew?”

“How would I know?” Tom hissed in an angry rush of words, his body jerking in a similar way to a child throwing a tantrum. “It’s not like he’s wearing a fucking sign around his neck!”

The idea of Booker wearing a neon sign that flashed, **I’M BISEXUAL, HONK IF YOU THINK I’M SEXY** was too much for Doug, and he started to snigger like a twelve-year-old. But Tom’s irate and somewhat confused expression soon sobered his mood and swallowing down the last of his giggles, he once again placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Lighten up, Hanson. It’s not a big deal. So, Booker swings both ways, it’s not like his sexuality affects how he does his job. He’s a good cop, and that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah?” Tom muttered moodily, his face a picture of despondency. “That’s easy for _you_ to say. _You’re_ not the one featuring in his wet dreams.”

Penhall raised both hands in a halting gesture. “Whoa! Jesus, Tom, enough! I don’t need _that_ image floating around in my head.”

For the first time that morning, Tom’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “I hope the vision haunts you for the rest of your life,” he teased softly. “You deserve—”

“HANSON!”

At the sound of his name, Tom turned his head in the direction of his captain’s office. Adam Fuller stood in the doorway, his stance tense and his expression serious. Tom knew the look all too well, and adrenaline surged through his system, increasing his heart rate and twitching his muscles in readiness for what was to come. He was about to embark on another case, and his usual happy and optimistic nature immediately returned. It was the rush he lived for; it was his life.

Grateful their captain had interrupted their disturbing conversation, he jumped enthusiastically to his feet. “Coming, Coach.”

Fuller nodded and returned to his office. When Tom entered the room, he motioned for him to take a seat and tenting his fingers under his chin, he leaned back in his chair. “There have been reports of extreme mistreatment during Hell Week. Last semester, two pledges were admitted to the hospital, one for alcohol poisoning, and the other for heatstroke. The abuse is escalating.”

Tom shrugged his shoulders apathetically. “So? Hazings are ritualistic rites of passage that have existed for centuries. If you become a pledge, you know what you’re getting into.”

A little surprised by Tom’s cavalier attitude, Fuller furrowed his brow. “Not the point,” he replied in a terse voice. “These young men are desperate for acceptance, and they’ll do anything to get it. We need to apprehend the abusers before somebody dies.”

It was not exactly the type of case Hanson had been hoping for, but he was willing to do anything to put some distance between himself and Dennis. “Sure, Coach,” he agreed with a smile and leaning forward, he accepted the manila folder his captain handed to him. But when he opened the file and started to read, his relaxed disposition immediately vanished and for the second time in less than five minutes, the blood drained from his face. “ _Booker?_ You’re sending me in with _Booker?”_

Fuller suppressed a cunning smile. He was well aware of the friction between the two headstrong officers, and he was determined to put an end to it. There was no room for egotism on the force and if Booker and Hanson could not find a way to work together, one of them would have to transfer to another department. Cops needed to be able to trust their partners with their lives and in Fuller’s mind, the hazing case was the perfect bonding assignment for the two men. 

“C’mon, Cap’n, you _can’t_ be serious!” Tom continued, the pitch of his voice rising to a whine. “Why can’t you partner me with Doug?”

As a captain, Fuller was one of the best in Los Angeles. He was tough but fair, and he was closer to the officers under his charge than he was to his son. But that did not mean he was easy to manipulate. He was the superior officer, and he expected his subordinates to put their differences behind them and obey his command. However, as he studied Tom’s pale face, the level of the young officer’s distress concerned and puzzled him. He could not understand why Hanson felt such animosity towards Booker when the two young officers were so alike. It was a mystery and before sending the two men into what could be a volatile situation, he decided to probe a little deeper.

“Can you give me _one_ valid reason why you don’t want to work with Booker?” he asked quietly.

Tom wanted to leap to his feet and scream there were a million reasons. Booker was egotistical, smug, overconfident, opinionated and most unnervingly, he had a crush on him. But he knew better than to offer up such lame excuses, and so he remained tight-lipped, his mouth set in a hard line as his captain continued to stare at him, waiting for an answer. Eventually, he blew out his cheeks and shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he pushed his lower lip into a petulant pout and muttered what was probably the feeblest excuse of all. “I just don't like him.”

The response was not what Fuller expected, and he found himself losing patience. With his mind made up, he narrowed his eyes into slits and gave Hanson his patented _no nonsense_ stare. “You'd better _find_ a way to like him. We're a team, Hanson, and I issue assignments based on the suitability of my officers. I admit, I _would_ have partnered you with Ioki, but he’s already on a case. Booker’s the next best fit, so you’d better learn to get along, because if you don't, we’re going to have a problem. Understood?”

Embarrassed by the reprimand, Tom lowered his gaze to the floor. “Yes, Coach,” he mumbled under his breath. After Penhall’s revelation, the thought of working closely with Booker unnerved him. However, he was a dedicated cop, and he was determined not to let his feelings get in the way of his job. He figured it would only take a few days to bust the students responsible for the abuse and then everything would return to normal. But what he did not know was his relationship with Booker was about to get a whole lot more complicated, and life as he knew it would never be the same again.


	2. Nemesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: “Can you give me one valid reason why you don’t want to work with Booker?” he asked quietly._
> 
> _Tom wanted to leap to his feet and scream there were a million reasons. Booker was egotistical, smug, overconfident, opinionated and most unnervingly, he had a crush on him. But he knew better than to offer up such lame excuses, and so he remained tight-lipped, his mouth set in a hard line as his captain continued to stare at him, waiting for an answer. Eventually, he blew out his cheeks and shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he pushed his lower lip into a petulant pout and muttered what was probably the feeblest excuse of all. “I just don't like him.”_
> 
> _The response was not what Fuller expected, and he found himself losing patience. With his mind made up, he narrowed his eyes into slits and gave Hanson his patented no nonsense stare. “You'd better find a way to like him. We're a team, Hanson, and I issue assignments based on the suitability of my officers. I admit, I would have partnered you with Ioki, but he’s already on a case. Booker’s the next best fit, so you’d better learn to get along, because if you don't, we’re going to have a problem. Understood?”_
> 
> _Embarrassed by the reprimand, Tom lowered his gaze to the floor. “Yes, Coach,” he mumbled under his breath. After Penhall’s revelation, the thought of working closely with Booker unnerved him. However, he was a dedicated cop, and he was determined not to let his feelings get in the way of his job. He figured it would only take a few days to bust the students responsible for the abuse and then everything would return to normal. But what he did not know was his relationship with Booker was about to get a whole lot more complicated, and life as he knew it would never be the same again._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35568383950/)

A smug-faced Booker immediately accosted Tom as he exited Fuller’s office. “So, I guess it's just gonna be you and me for a while, _Tommy,_ ” the dark-haired officer teased with a wink.

A scowl replaced the tilting smile that usually graced Tom’s lips, and he glared back at Dennis with resentful eyes. “Gee, _Book,_ I can hardly wait.”

Booker’s grin widened. He knew _exactly_ how to push Tom’s buttons to trigger a reaction, so much so he barely considered it sport anymore. However, the mild entertainment he felt when he teased Tom was not the reason he continued to goad the younger officer. It was because any response, even an angry one, was better than no interaction at all. He needed Tom’s attention in the same way he needed oxygen; it was crucial to his being, and he knew the only way he would get it was to continue to piss him off. In the darkness of night, when his fingers lightly trailed over his growing erection, he pretended it was Tom gently coaxing his cock to life and with each magical stroke, he would whisper his name. He knew it was an unattainable dream; Tom was straight. But there were times when he would secretly smile to himself because he likened his feelings to that of a character in a fairy tale; he was bewitched, and he did not know how to shake off the spell. However, unlike the fictional characters of a children’s book, he did not _want_ to end the enchantment; what he wanted was for the enchantment to infect Tom too.

Sensing Hanson was about to end their conversation by walking away, Dennis reached out a hand and lightly grasped him by the forearm. However, the smaller officer visibly cringed at the contact before yanking his arm away, his face portraying a look of panic. 

Somewhat annoyed, Dennis raised a questioning eyebrow. _“What?”_

With his face flaming red, Tom’s lips twitched nervously as he attempted to downplay his overreaction. “I don't like people touching me,” he mumbled.

The lameness of the statement was too good an opportunity for Booker to pass up, and he gazed innocently into Tom’s eyes as his expression turned thoughtful. “ _Really?_ Hmm... interesting.”

Even though the mocking intonation in Dennis’ voice was barely perceivable, Tom picked up on it straight away, and he glowered back. “What's _that_ supposed to mean?”

While he pretended to ponder the significance of Tom’s reaction, Booker struggled to suppress a laugh. “Well, you let _Penhall_ hug you all the time,” he replied slowly, his brow furrowing in contemplation, and when Tom did not answer, he waggled his eyebrows suggestively as his mouth widened into a huge, teasing grin. “Is there something going on between the two of you I should know about?”

It took a moment for Tom to realize Booker had once again managed to get the better of him, and his anger bubbled to the surface. “What the fuck’s your problem?” he growled. “Why do you always have to behave like such a prick?”

Feigning a wounded look, Booker theatrically clamped a hand over his heart. “Ouch! I think you just hurt my feelings.”

Anger blazed in Tom’s dark eyes, and he found himself starting to lose control. “Fuck off and leave me alone,” he snapped. 

An irritating smirk curled Booker’s lips. “Settle down, Hanson,” he laughed, “I was only kidding. Don't get your panties in a knot.”

Through sheer willpower, Tom managed to resist the urge to smack the smirk off Booker’s face, and with the teasing laughter still ringing in his ears, he balled his hands into fists and walked away. The way things were going, he knew it would be an extremely long few days in the company of a man who was able to provoke a reaction out of him so effortlessly, and he silently cursed his short fuse. If he did not want Booker to get the better of him, he needed to pull himself together, act like a professional and not let his dark-haired antagonist distract him from doing his job. He would not allow Booker’s presence to unnerve him again because if he did, it would reveal his vulnerabilities, and he would rather die than give his nemesis more ammunition to use against him. 

Therefore, he knew he had no choice but to stay calm. Otherwise, Booker would win, and there was no way in hell he was going to let _that_ happen.

But as he sat down at his desk, he caught Dennis staring at him with a wistful expression, and with his cheeks flaming red, he quickly averted his gaze. If Doug was right, and Booker _did_ have a crush on him, the next week of his life would be more than just uncomfortable, it would be excruciating.

**

**Two days later**

The sweet, melodic chirrup of the house sparrows nesting in the eaves above his window woke Booker from a deep slumber. Harsh sunlight flooded in through the open window and yawning sleepily, he stretched out his arms and legs and contemplated the day ahead. A student ID card sat on his bedside table, the name Dennis Brody a familiar alias since he had started at Jump Street. Hanson’s ID stated that he was Tom Harris, but Booker did not think the moniker suited him. It was too generic, and in his mind, Tom was _anything_ but common. The young officer who constantly took his breath away was uniquely beautiful, funny, tender, tenacious, hardworking and loyal, but above all, he was a skilled police officer. He was everything Dennis was looking for in a partner, except for one rather vital detail; he was straight. While the whimsical lyricists and poets often employed the idiomatic expression _love begets love_ in their flowery verses, he had endured enough homophobic abuse to know that was not the case. Real love could not be cajoled, stolen, ransomed or seduced, and no matter how much he wished the circumstances were different, he knew he was chasing a feather in the wind. It was doubtful Tom would ever view him as a friend, let alone as a potential lover and therefore, he protected his dignity by deflecting his disappointment with humor. He teased Tom every chance he could because without contact, he was left feeling empty and unfulfilled.

With images of Tom now floating in his mind, he reached under the covers and stroked a finger up and down his early morning erection. Immediately a shudder of arousal rippled through his body and his breathing became heavier. He could feel his cock thickening with each titillating caress, and closing his eyes, he wrapped his hand around his hardening shaft and began to jerk off. The erotic sensation sent bolts of pleasure throughout his body, the added stimulation engorging the vessels in his cock until he was fully erect. His hand moved faster, the invigorating tugging becoming a steady, rhythmic movement and Tom’s name tumbled from his lips in a sexual mantra of longing.

“Tom Tom Tom Tom…” he panted before he suddenly tensed and uttering a long, drawn out moan, his testicles tightened and with a full body spasm, he ejaculated forcefully over his stomach. 

Endorphins flooded his system as a post-climactic calm relaxed his muscles and sighing contentedly, he released his softening cock. Because of his strong feelings, he understood putting himself in close proximity to a man who made his cock hard was going to be difficult, but he could not suppress the shiver of excitement that tingled up and down his spine. It would be their first case working together since investigating the gang of racists, and he found himself grinning with a childlike enthusiasm. It was his hope that working closely together would give them a chance to get to know each other better. However, he was realistic enough and jaded enough not to hold out too much hope. But past failures would not prevent him from trying; after all, stranger things had happened.

Glancing at the luminous dial of his clock radio, he groaned when he realized he was running late and throwing back the duvet, he climbed from the bed and walked into the bathroom. After relieving his bladder, he stepped into the shower cubicle and facing the shower head, he turned on the faucets. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips as the warm spray of water thrummed therapeutically over his bronzed body and closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to drift back to Tom.

**

Tom watched with growing agitation as Booker leisurely sauntered out of his apartment building without an apparent care in the world. He had been sitting in his Mustang for over half an hour, and with each passing minute, his mood had darkened. But during the time of mental anguish, he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge that he could go up to Booker’s apartment and knock on the door instead of sitting in his car stewing. He had reasoned that if he did, it would negate the validity of his bad mood, and he _wanted_ to feel angry. It was petty and childish, but the animosity helped to quell the nervous butterflies that insisted on fluttering in his stomach. There was no logical reason for their existence and the unsettling sensation only added to his feelings of resentment; he hated that Booker had such a profound effect on him.

His jaw clenched when Booker tossed his belongings into the trunk and slammed the lid closed with an unnecessary bang that violently shook the Mustang. “You’re late,” he yelled through the open window. 

With a grin, Booker climbed into the car and closed the door. Tapping a cigarette out of a crumpled packet of Marlboro Reds, he placed it between his lips and pushed in the car’s lighter. “It’s Sunday, Hanson, we can show up when we like.”

“We agreed to meet at nine,” Tom growled, “If I can’t even trust you to… Oh, forget it, there’s no fucking point arguing with you.”

The cigarette lighter popped, but when Booker reached out to pull it from its socket, Tom clamped a hand over his wrist. “Not in my car.”

A jolt of pleasure shot through Booker’s body, and he suppressed a moan. The feel of Tom’s touch against his bare skin was electrifying, and he could not help but imagine the long fingers wrapping around his erection, teasing it to life. With the image firmly ingrained in his mind, his cock instantly hardened, and a noticeable bulge appeared in the front of his jeans. Immediately a terrifying panic gripped his heart, and sweat prickled his underarms, dampening the material of his tee shirt. The erotic impression was too intense, too overwhelming and yanking his hand away, he quickly covered his crotch.

Surprised by the reaction, Tom stared at Booker in confusion, but before he could speak, the dark-haired officer’s lip curled into a teasing smirk. “Payback’s a bitch, huh? _I_ don't like being touched either.”

Tom mentally berated himself. He felt annoyed that he had allowed himself to feel a glimmer of concern for the man who continued to goad him, and slamming the Mustang into gear, he stamped his foot on the gas and pulled from the sidewalk with a squeal of tires.

As the Mustang sped towards Holbrooke College, Booker leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. It was not the beginning he had hoped for, but he was man enough to admit he was partly to blame. Whenever he was in Tom’s company, he felt the urge to tease him mercilessly and memories of elementary school brought a smile to his lips. Boys pulling girls pigtails, girls chasing boys and hitting them; it was all part of growing up. He had fond memories of those days because once he entered middle school everything changed. At age eleven, he knew he was different and by age fourteen, he was openly bisexual. Coming out had not won him any friends, he was bullied and beaten up on almost a daily basis, and it was then his personality had changed. Prior to middle school, he had been open and friendly, but by age thirteen, he had developed a tough, conceited attitude. He never backed away from an argument, and he soon proved himself a skilled fighter. But his belligerence did not make him any more popular and by the time he left school, he was virtually friendless. College, the Police Academy and his first job in Internal Affairs had been easier, but he still found it difficult to relax around his peers. However, all that changed when he joined the Jump Street Program. Despite his shaky beginnings, he finally felt he fitted in. After only a few months of working together, he now considered Doug, Judy and Harry as friends, _real_ friends. He knew he could count on them when needed, and he trusted them with his life. But the one person he wanted to spend time with remained elusive, and opening his eyes, he stole a furtive glance in Tom’s direction.

It was evident from Tom’s profile he was tense. With his mouth set in a firm, hard line, the muscles in his jaw twitched spasmodically. He sat stiffly in the bucket seat, his eyes staring straight ahead and his hands grasping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles shone white through his skin. There was no doubt he was extremely pissed off, and Booker felt a pang of guilt. But he knew better than to try to placate him and closing his eyes again, he concentrated on the sound of the Mustang’s engine. All he could hope was by the time they reached their destination, Tom would be calm enough to talk strategically about their assignment. If not, he had no idea how to proceed. Hanson genuinely disliked him, and not even a thousand apologies could fix a relationship that was smashed beyond repair. It was a precarious situation, and he was counting on Tom behaving like a cop and not holding petty grudges. Otherwise, they were screwed.


	3. A Shaky Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom mentally berated himself. He felt annoyed that he had allowed himself to feel a glimmer of concern for the man who continued to goad him, and slamming the Mustang into gear, he stamped his foot on the gas and pulled from the sidewalk with a squeal of tires._
> 
> _As the Mustang sped towards Holbrooke College, Booker leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. It was not the beginning he had hoped for, but he was man enough to admit he was partly to blame. Whenever he was in Tom’s company, he felt the urge to tease him mercilessly and memories of elementary school brought a smile to his lips. Boys pulling girls pigtails, girls chasing boys and hitting them; it was all part of growing up. He had fond memories of those days because once he entered middle school everything changed. At age eleven, he knew he was different and by age fourteen, he was openly bisexual. Coming out had not won him any friends, he was bullied and beaten up on almost a daily basis, and it was then his personality had changed. Prior to middle school, he had been open and friendly, but by age thirteen, he had developed a tough, conceited attitude. He never backed away from an argument, and he soon proved himself a skilled fighter. But his belligerence did not make him any more popular and by the time he left school, he was virtually friendless. College, the Police Academy and his first job in Internal Affairs had been easier, but he still found it difficult to relax around his peers. However, all that changed when he joined the Jump Street Program. Despite his shaky beginnings, he finally felt he fitted in. After only a few months of working together, he now considered Doug, Judy and Harry as friends, real friends. He knew he could count on them when needed, and he trusted them with his life. But the one person he wanted to spend time with remained elusive, and opening his eyes, he stole a furtive glance in Tom’s direction._
> 
> _It was evident from Tom’s profile he was tense. With his mouth set in a firm, hard line, the muscles in his jaw twitched spasmodically. He sat stiffly in the bucket seat, his eyes staring straight ahead and his hands grasping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles shone white through his skin. There was no doubt he was extremely pissed off, and Booker felt a pang of guilt. But he knew better than to try to placate him and closing his eyes again, he concentrated on the sound of the Mustang’s engine. All he could hope was by the time they reached their destination, Tom would be calm enough to talk strategically about their assignment. If not, he had no idea how to proceed. Hanson genuinely disliked him, and not even a thousand apologies could fix a relationship that was smashed beyond repair. It was a precarious situation, and he was counting on Tom behaving like a cop and not holding petty grudges. Otherwise, they were screwed.  
> _

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35147652233/)

Due to Tom’s reckless driving, the two officers arrived at their destination in record time. Neither man spoke as they liberated their duffel bags from the trunk of the Mustang and walked to the college administration office. 

Sitting behind the counter was a sixty-something woman, who looked like she had time traveled from the 1950s. Dressed in an austere suit-dress, her tightly curled poodle haircut highlighted a sharp, hawk-like nose, and the heavy, cat eye glasses framing her watery blue eyes completed the retro outfit. She gave off an ascetic aura, and both men took an unconscious step back when she peered at them over her thick frames. “Yes?”

When Booker choked back a giggle, Tom threw him a withering look and taking charge, he stepped forward. “Um, Thomas Harris and Dennis Brody,” he introduced with an engaging smile. “We’re here to enroll and pick up our room keys.”

Ms. Circa Nineteen-Fifties took two forms from a neat pile on her desk and placed them on the counter with two ballpoint pens. “Fill these in,” she instructed in a voice that reminded Tom of fingernails scraping down a chalkboard.

By the time they had finished filling out the paperwork, the woman had returned with their keys. But when Tom looked at the room numbers, he noticed they were identical. “Er, I think there’s been a mistake. We want _individual_ rooms.”

The woman pursed her thin lips together, the disapproving expression accentuating the wrinkles around her lipstick-smeared mouth. “This isn’t _an_ hotel, _Mister_ Harris,” she enunciated in an upper-class vernacular. “We have limited accommodation at Holbrooke. You should be counting your blessings that I did not place you in a six-bed dorm room.”

When Tom lowered his gaze and mumbled, “Yes, Ma’am,” in a submissive tone, Booker’s grin broadened. He had indulged in many sexual fantasies about Tom, and his favorite was the dom/sub role-play. But now he had witnessed Tom’s compliance, he knew the fantasy would be even more realistic than before. In his mind, he could picture Tom handcuffed to a bed, his naked body trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement, his expression desperate to please. It was a erotic vision, and for the third time that morning, his cock hardened. But he quickly realized he was once again heading towards dangerous territory and shifting his gaze, he stared at the admin officer’s beak-like nose. Fortunately, it was the remedy he needed and within seconds, his budding erection wilted, and a small sigh of relief escaped from between his lips. Although cruel, he could not help but wonder if she’d had that effect on men all her life. However, he knew what it felt like to be judged by others, and so he quickly pushed the prejudiced thought from his mind. If Ms. Circa Nineteen-Fifties was happy, what did it matter?

A look of resignation passed over Tom’s face, and he expelled a heavy sigh. “Thanks,” he muttered despondently and turning to Booker, he narrowed his eyes. “You’d better not snore.”

Once again, without even realizing it, Tom had given Booker the opening he needed to return a teasing reply. “Not that I’ve been told,” he grinned. “But I _do_ have _very_ vivid dreams, so if I call out your name...”

On cue, Tom’s face flushed crimson and snatching his key off the counter, he pushed through the line of students queuing behind them and stormed up the corridor. Mentally cursing himself for not keeping his mouth shut, Booker offered Ms. Circa Nineteen-Fifties an apologetic smile and picking up his key and a map of the campus, he followed Tom out of the building. When he entered the tree-lined, paved quadrangle, he saw Tom standing by a drinking fountain, his face still flushed with humiliation. But seeing Tom looking genuinely upset had a deep effect on him, and he decided perhaps he had taken the teasing too far. Although he was not one to offer apologies readily, he figured this time, one was in order and walking over to the fountain, he gave Tom a penitent smile. “Sorry, that was stupid. I don’t know why I said it.”

The unexpected verbal reparation was the perfect opportunity for Tom to confront Dennis and ask him outright if he had a crush on him, but he could not actually bring himself to utter the words because he was not sure he _wanted_ to know the truth. Since Doug had divulged the _open_ secret, he was hyper aware of every look the dark-haired officer gave him. Every smile, raised eyebrow or cheeky wink had a suggestive connotation behind it, and he was no longer able to ignore the thinly veiled signals. But what made it worse was he had been blind to it for so long. He was a cop, he was supposed to be able to read people, and yet Booker’s not so subtle advances had somehow not registered on his personal radar. The constant teasing was a sign of affection, not a way to get back at him, and he felt foolish he had not picked up on it. However, knowing Booker fancied him was extremely unsettling, and he almost wished he had never found out. But there was no turning back the clock, and if he and Dennis were to do their jobs properly, he was going to have to find a way to deal with it, or face the wrath of their captain.

Therefore, he decided to be the bigger man and blowing out his cheeks, he shoved his hands in his pockets and returned a small smile. “Yeah, well, I probably shouldn’t have overreacted.”

Surprised by Tom’s admission, Booker hesitated for a moment before holding out his hand. “Truce?”

Although not entirely prepared to let bygones be bygones, Tom knew that for the sake of the assignment, he at least needed to _try_ to get along with Booker. Therefore, with a heavy sigh, he took hold of the proffered hand and shook it. “Truce.”

A bolt of pleasure shot through Booker’s body and his dark eyes lit up, his pupils sparkling with delight. He and Tom were finally making inroads in their relationship, but even though he knew he should let the matter drop, he could not resist making one last teasing comment. “You’re very pretty when you’re angry.”

With lightning speed, Tom snatched his hand away, the crimson hue returning to his cheeks, the blush heating his face. The smile that had graced his lips vanished, replaced by a less attractive scowl and his dark eyes flashed with anger. “You’re such an asshole,” he spat. “Does anybody _really_ like you, or do they just pretend to be your friend?”

Taken aback by Tom’s harsh words, Booker felt a physical pain in his heart, and the sparkle slowly vanished from his eyes. Doug, Judy, and Harry were the only people he felt close to, and now he wondered if the friendships he valued so much, in fact, were based on a lie. He knew he could be abrasive; years of bullying had made him defensive, and it had become second nature to protect his ego by behaving in a rude and often conceited manner. Life had changed his personality, but he was starting to wonder if by hanging on to the past, he was needlessly acting in a self-destructive manner. He was no longer a frightened thirteen-year-old boy, he was a man and maybe the time had come to drop the act.

However, when Tom’s gentle fingers grasped his arm, he instinctively pulled away. “Don’t,” he muttered in a voice tinged with hurt.

Although he felt justified in his anger, Tom still felt like a complete prick and raking a hand through his hair, he struggled to find the comforting words that would make everything right. “Look, I’m sorry… it’s just… I don’t understand why you keep saying those things to me.”

Afraid he might reveal his true emotions, Booker once again turned to snark for self-preservation. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hanson,” he laughed, his mouth twisting into a cruel sneer. “I only do it ‘cause it pisses you off. Not everyone thinks you’re hot.”

“Nobody said they did,” Tom shot back with a sullen pout. “You’re the one who’s always going on about how I look and—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, get over it!” Booker exclaimed with a roll of his eyes. “I do it ‘cause it’s fun, nothing more.”

With his temper now rising, Tom took a step closer to Booker, invading his personal space. “So,” he murmured, his gaze narrowing as he stared into his adversary’s mocking eyes. “All this talk I hear about you having a crush on me isn’t true, is that it?”

Booker’s hands shot out, and he shoved Tom violently in the chest, the force sending the smaller officer staggering backward. “You’d better watch what you say, _Tommy,_ ” he warned with a growl. “Spreading rumors can get you into a _whole_ lotta trouble.”

Unsure how their short-lived _truce_ had escalated into a shoving match, Tom refrained from fighting back. Instead, he picked up his duffel bag and snatched the campus map from Booker’s hand. “I’m sick of this bullshit, I’m going to find our room.”

“Yeah?” Booker replied in a childish tone. “Well, _I’m_ gonna find the campus bar,” and picking up his bag, he turned and sauntered up the paved pathway.

Tom closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. His body was shaking with frustration and anger, and he began to have serious doubts that he and Booker would _ever_ be able to work together without coming to blows.

**

Without Booker by his side, Tom spent the day wandering around the campus, familiarizing himself with the layout. After he had eaten lunch in a funky off campus café filled with noisy students, he went back to their room and unpacked. With no sign of Booker, he decided to do some investigating on his own and after studying the notes he kept hidden in a secret pouch in his bag, he set off down the tree-lined streets until he found the Pi Tau fraternity house. The white, Folk Victorian with a gabled roof, stood majestically amongst the more modern American Foursquare designs and concealing himself behind a large oak tree across the street, he carefully studied everyone entering or leaving the house. Most of the male students were casually dressed in jeans and tees, but several others wore what Tom considered a more _preppy_ mode of dress. Argyle sweaters coupled with light-colored pleated trousers and boat shoes appeared to be the attire of choice of those from the upper classes, and Tom’s lip twitched into a derisive sneer. The whole concept of a fraternity was offensive to him, and even though he had once dressed in a more conservative manner, he was now more comfortable in ripped jeans and a tee shirt. However, his change in appearance had not pleased everyone. His mother nagged him constantly, telling him that he was _de_ volving with age instead of _e_ volving, but he took no notice of her criticism. He had no doubt in his mind the Tom Hanson he was now was the Tom Hanson he was supposed to be, but most importantly, he was happy. At least he had been until…

Sighing heavily, his mind turned to Booker. Booker… Booker… Booker… even the name grated on his nerves. Never before had someone affected him in such a negative way. It was not just the thought of the annoying officer _lusting_ after him that unnerved him; he was not even sure if that piece of information was true. What unsettled him was the man himself, his mocking eyes and scornful grin, the teasing intonation of his voice, everything about him set his teeth on edge. Except… except the pain that had briefly flashed in his eyes when he had made the friend comment had shown a glimpse of his vulnerable side, making him appear more _tangible,_ more approachable. But knowing he could expose his weaknesses so easily did not make him happy. It had been a throwaway line, he knew very little about Dennis’ private life, and he had no idea if the dark-haired officer had any friends or not. However, his reaction hinted that he did not, and Tom could not help but feel sorry for him. Doug was _his_ best friend, and he thanked the universe every day for bringing them together. He could not imagine his life without him, the fun-loving officer was his rock, his confidante, his drinking partner and his bowling buddy. He made him laugh, he also drove him batshit crazy, but most importantly, he made him feel loved. Without Penhall by his side, he was not sure he would have fitted in at Jump Street, and the sudden realization heated his face, reddening his cheeks a deep shade of crimson. Instead of holding a grudge against Booker, he should have offered him the hand of friendship once he knew he was on the up and up. But knowing he worked for internal affairs had made him wary, and his animosity had grown from there. On the outside, Booker appeared confident and conceited, but Tom was now starting to wonder if it was all an act.

Another sigh exhaled from between his lips and placing a hand on his lower back, he stretched out his cramped muscles. A cool breeze rustled the leaves above his head, and he realized he had been standing behind the tree for over an hour. With the sun making its descent towards the horizon, he decided to get something to eat and call it a night. They had a long day ahead of them, Fuller had organized their bogus invitation to pledge and Monday would be the first time they would enter the hallowed grounds of the Pi Tau fraternity. Surprisingly, he felt nervous about what lay ahead, and he wondered if it was because he did not fully trust Booker. He was used to working with partners he could depend on, but given their relationship, there was no certainty that Booker would have his back if the situation got out of hand. How the dark-haired officer would react to the hazing rituals was an unknown, and all Tom could do was hope was that he would not let him down.


	4. Roommates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Without Booker by his side, Tom spent the day wandering around the campus, familiarizing himself with the layout. After he had eaten lunch in a funky off campus café filled with noisy students, he went back to their room and unpacked. With no sign of Booker, he decided to do some investigating on his own and after studying the notes he kept hidden in a secret pouch in his bag, he set off down the tree-lined streets until he found the Pi Tau fraternity house. The white, Folk Victorian with a gabled roof, stood majestically amongst the more modern American Foursquare designs and concealing himself behind a large oak tree across the street, he carefully studied everyone entering or leaving the house. Most of the male students were casually dressed in jeans and tees, but several others wore what Tom considered a more preppy mode of dress. Argyle sweaters coupled with light-colored pleated trousers and boat shoes appeared to be the attire of choice of those from the upper classes, and Tom’s lip twitched into a derisive sneer. The whole concept of a fraternity was offensive to him, and even though he had once dressed in a more conservative manner, he was now more comfortable in ripped jeans and a tee shirt. However, his change in appearance had not pleased everyone. His mother nagged him constantly, telling him that he was devolving with age instead of evolving, but he took no notice of her criticism. He had no doubt in his mind the Tom Hanson he was now was the Tom Hanson he was supposed to be, but most importantly, he was happy. At least he had been until…_
> 
> _Sighing heavily, his mind turned to Booker. Booker… Booker… Booker… even the name grated on his nerves. Never before had someone affected him in such a negative way. It was not just the thought of the annoying officer lusting after him that unnerved him; he was not even sure if that piece of information was true. What unsettled him was the man himself, his mocking eyes and scornful grin, the teasing intonation of his voice, everything about him set his teeth on edge. Except… except the pain that had briefly flashed in his eyes when he had made the friend comment had shown a glimpse of his vulnerable side, making him appear more tangible, more approachable. But knowing he could expose his weaknesses so easily did not make him happy. It had been a throwaway line, he knew very little about Dennis’ private life, and he had no idea if the dark-haired officer had any friends or not. However, his reaction hinted that he did not, and Tom could not help but feel sorry for him. Doug was his best friend, and he thanked the universe every day for bringing them together. He could not imagine his life without him, the fun-loving officer was his rock, his confidante, his drinking partner and his bowling buddy. He made him laugh, he also drove him batshit crazy, but most importantly, he made him feel loved. Without Penhall by his side, he was not sure he would have fitted in at Jump Street, and the sudden realization heated his face, reddening his cheeks a deep shade of crimson. Instead of holding a grudge against Booker, he should have offered him the hand of friendship once he knew he was on the up and up. But knowing he worked for internal affairs had made him wary, and his animosity had grown from there. On the outside, Booker appeared confident and conceited, but Tom was now starting to wonder if it was all an act._
> 
> _Another sigh exhaled from between his lips and placing a hand on his lower back, he stretched out his cramped muscles. A cool breeze rustled the leaves above his head, and he realized he had been standing behind the tree for over an hour. With the sun making its descent towards the horizon, he decided to get something to eat and call it a night. They had a long day ahead of them, Fuller had organized their bogus invitation to pledge and Sunday would be the first time they would enter the hallowed grounds of the Pi Tau fraternity. Surprisingly, he felt nervous about what lay ahead, and he wondered if it was because he did not fully trust Booker. He was used to working with partners he could depend on, but given their relationship, there was no certainty that Booker would have his back if the situation got out of hand. How the dark-haired officer would react to the hazing rituals was an unknown, and all Tom could do was hope was that he would not let him down._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35824874501/in/dateposted-public/)

After enjoying a burger and fries in a quiet café, Tom took his time walking back to the campus via Fraternity Row. The steady _doof doof_ of loud music echoed up and down the leafy street, the jarring techno sound interspersed with rowdy laughter and strident voices. He paused behind _his_ tree and studied the Pi Tau house. The Victorian stood shrouded by darkness, the only light a faint shimmer shining through the small basement window. No noise emanated from the shadowy building and Tom’s brow furrowed into a heavy frown. It was unusual for a frat house to be so quiet on a weekend, and he wondered what secrets lay hidden behind its walls.

He stood watching for several minutes, but the house remained eerily silent. Intrigued by the solitude, he continued his surveillance, but when he witnessed no suspicious activity, he decided there was no point hanging around and he continued toward the college. When he arrived at the student dorm, he also found it relatively quiet for a Sunday night and unlocking the door to his room, he switched on the light and walked in. 

Booker’s bed was empty, and there was no sign of his belongings throughout the dorm. He was obviously still out painting the town red and with a sigh, Tom started to close the door. But before it could latch, he found himself stumbling backward as it flew open, and a drunken Booker lurched into the room.

“Oops, sorry,” the dark-haired officer apologized with a goofy grin and slamming the door closed, he dropped his bag to the floor. He stood swaying unsteadily on his feet for a moment before staggering over to his bed and flopping down on the mattress with a sigh.

As he studied Booker’s bloodshot eyes and unsteady gait, Tom did not know whether to laugh or scream. If Dennis was going to spend his time drinking and socializing, his worst nightmare was about to be realized. The thought of facing the hazing rituals alone unnerved him, and although he did not wholly trust Booker, he wanted him by his side. However, it was only their first day and therefore, he decided to cut him some slack. After all, neither of them had behaved in a professional manner since arriving at the college, so he had no real reason to complain. For some reason, Booker always brought the worst out in him, and he wondered if the dark-haired officer viewed him in the same way.

So instead of berating him, he decided to keep the conversation light. “Looks like you had no trouble finding the bar.”

Amused by Tom’s statement, a drowsy smile played over Booker’s lips before he yawned noisily. “Nope, and let me tell you, Tommy, it was _full_ of really hot coeds… and a few hot guys. And you wanna know what’s great? They’re not only gorgeous, they’re _legal!”_

Unsure if Booker was winding him up or not, Tom decided to err on the side of caution and not take the bait. Instead, he began to undress, the emotion of the day’s events suddenly overwhelming him. With a yawn, he threw his jacket onto the chair and tugging his tee shirt over his head, he flung it on top of his coat. After kicking off his boots, he untied the shirt from around his waist and tossed it towards the chair. But his aim was off, and it slipped to the floor, where it remained in a crumpled heap. When he unbuckled his belt and started to pull down the zipper of his jeans, he caught Booker looking at him and pausing mid-zip, he raised an eyebrow in a _do you mind?_ gesture. 

Unperturbed by Tom’s discomfit, a slow grin played over Booker’s lips. Blind Freddie could see he was making the young officer uneasy, but he could not stop himself. The sight before him was mesmerizing, and unable to look away, he continued to cast a lingering eye over Tom’s smooth, slender torso. “Do I make you nervous, Hanson?” he asked softly, his coal-black eyes dancing with mischief.

It was on the tip of Tom's tongue to reply, “Are you _always_ such a pervert, Booker?” But he caught himself just in time and instead, he smiled sweetly and unzipping his jeans, he let the blue denim fall to the floor. “Nope,” he replied with a smile and stepping out of the worn jeans, he kicked them towards his shirt. "You just annoy the shit out of me."

It was the first time Tom had taken his teasing in good humor, and Booker’s grin widened. “You know what, Hanson? I was wrong, you’re prettier when you smile.”

Although he could not control the blush that stained his cheeks, Tom grinned back and walking over to the door, he turned the lock and flicked off the light. “Go to sleep, Booker. We’ve got a fun day of hazing to look forward to tomorrow.”

Booker watched Tom climb into bed and too lazy to get undressed, he kicked off his boots and crawled under the covers. Soft moonlight filtered in through the partially open blinds, casting shadows over Tom’s tranquil face, the luminous beam emphasizing his beauty with its ethereal glow. With a contented sigh, Booker rolled over on his side and ignoring the gurgling in his stomach—the result of too much beer and not enough food—he gazed at Tom through bleary eyes. The sound of the younger man's breathing soon slowed, and a rhythmic snoring filled the room, causing him to smile. It seemed Hanson was the snorer, not him, and he filed the information away for future reference.

Weariness suddenly overwhelmed him and unable to fight the tiredness that was engulfing his body, he closed his eyes. “G’night, beautiful,” he whispered and snuggling down under the duvet, he fell asleep.

**

The sound of excited voices woke Booker from a deep sleep and moaning loudly, he partially opened his eyes and peered out through his long, dark lashes. His gaze immediately focused on Tom and an amused smile played over his lips. During the time he had been at Jump Street, he had indulged in many sexual fantasies about the man lying on the bed next to him. However, none resembled the reality that now presented itself before him. When he had imagined Tom asleep in his bed, he had envisioned him lying serenely on his side with his hands tucked under his face, his tranquility radiating the innocence of a small child. But what confronted him was an entirely different scenario, and he chuckled at the absurdity of his idolization. Tom lay on his stomach with his face mashed into the mattress, the uncomfortable looking pose forcing his mouth open in a twisted pout. Air expelled from between his parted lips, the rhythmic _pfff_ echoing throughout the small room. One arm dangled over the side of the bed, the knuckles of his hand grazing the worn brown carpet, the other arm lay wrapped around his head, partially hiding his tangled, sleep-mussed hair. Although not the perfect vision he had imagined in his dreams, Booker’s heart skipped a beat. Lying before him was the visual reality of his fantasies, and it did not disappoint. Despite not being the romantic representation he had conjured up in his mind, Tom was as beautiful in sleep as he was awake, more so because there was an underlying vulnerability in his defenselessness. Booker longed to gather him in his arms and pepper soft kisses over his supple yet toned body. The urge to lick and taste every inch of the flawlessly smooth flesh was overwhelming, and he suppressed a moan as his cock twitched to life. He knew he was playing a dangerous game; Tom could wake up at any moment. But he could not ignore his burgeoning arousal and reaching under the covers, he unzipped his jeans and released his cock. Another moan trembled on his lips and taking a deep breath, he lightly caressed his hardening shaft. A shiver of pleasure ran down the length of his spine, and fiery heat flared in his stomach, the internal flame traveling downwards and igniting his testicles in a warm glow. His fist began to pump frantically over his erection, and his breath hitched in his throat, the ragged sound intermingling with the sound of Tom’s heavy breathing. As he gazed at Hanson's open mouth, he imagined the full, pouting lips sucking his engorged head, and immediately his arousal intensified. Pre-cum leaked from his slit, lubricating his fingers as his fist worked over his shaft. When he felt his orgasm rising, a moment of panic thumped in his heart. He was still wearing his jeans and he ran the real risk of ejaculating over the worn denim. With a muffled cry, he just managed to grab a handful of the bed sheet with his free hand before his body stiffened, and pressing the sheet against his groin, he climaxed forcefully, the light-blue cotton protecting his clothing from his semen. 

Unaware of the sexual activity taking place within a few feet of his bed, Tom continued to rest peacefully. As Booker's breathing slowed, he continued to stare into the sleeping face of the man who was the object of his affection, and his dark eyes filled with adoration. Tom had not only captivated his heart, he had captivated his soul and he doubted he would ever find another individual who had the ability to take his breath away just by being in the same room as him. The level of his emotion was both intoxicating and terrifying. Tom occupied his thoughts day and night, and he spent his time thinking of ways to make contact, to evoke a look, a touch, even an angry diatribe was enough to set his heart racing with deep yearning. He was trapped in a web of seduction, and he was happy to stay there forever on the off chance Tom might decide he was worthy of his affection.

Sighing heavily, he wiped his sticky fingers on the soiled bed sheet and tucking himself away, he sat up. A loud burp reverberated from between his lips, leaving the foul taste of stale beer in his mouth and he grimaced in disgust. There was no clock in the small room, but judging by the loud voices that echoed outside their door, he figured it was still early morning, and most of the students were getting ready to go about their day. It was the last week of freedom before the semester started, a time to decorate dorms, explore the campus, or spend time relaxing before the hectic schedule of studying began. The bustling activity in the hallway sounded thrilling, but he did not feel jealous. He had never enjoyed the companionship of others and his time at college, although not as bad as high school, had not been the _best years of his life._ His combative attitude and tendency to mock his peers before they had a chance to mock him had not won him many friends. The small circle of people he _had_ considered his companions tended to be the outcasts and misfits, the ones whose faces mirrored his own insecurities and false bravado. They formed a bond because of the diversity of their characters, and even though he had lost contact with them all, they still held a special place in his heart. 

Raking a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, he yawned loudly and staggered to his feet. He could still feel the effects of the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed the night before, and the desire to shower and brush his teeth became the number one priority on his _to-do_ list. But as he grabbed his toiletries and a towel, his gaze once again fell on Tom’s sleeping face, and a cheeky smile tilted his lips. He knew he should leave well enough alone, but he could not resist teasing Tom again, and sitting on the edge of his bed, he savored the moment for a second before tracing a light finger over the young officer’s face. “Wakey, wakey, Hanson,” he crooned softly.

An incoherent mumble was the only response Booker received and smothering a laugh, he ran his fingers through Tom’s tousled hair. “C’mon, beautiful, time to get up.”

A lazy smile played over Tom’s lips, and he slowly opened his eyes. But when he saw Booker sitting next to him, he let out a yelp of surprise and pushing up onto his elbows, he gazed at his adversary with wide, startled eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

Booker winked suggestively, a broad grin lighting up his face. “Nothing,” he replied innocently.

Pulling the covers up to his chin, Tom stared at the dark-haired officer with distrust. “You were stroking my hair… you called me beautiful.”

It took all of Booker’s willpower to stifle the laugh that threatened to bubble from his throat. “I never touched you. Sorry to ruin your fantasy, Tommy, but you must have been dreaming.”

Tom’s face flushed red, and his left eye twitched nervously. “No, I wasn’t,” he replied in a rush of words, but his expression was unsure, and he blinked uncertainly, his blush deepening.

Feeling a little guilty, but unwilling to admit to his prank, Booker patted Tom on the shoulder and rising to his feet, he walked to the door. “I’ll meet you for breakfast in the dining hall. Okay?”

Confused by the early morning events, Tom slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, okay. See you there.”

As he left the room, Booker felt another pang of remorse, but his contrition did not suppress the grin that twitched at his lips. The bewildered look in Tom’s eyes had made the joke worthwhile, and he knew it would be difficult to contain his mischievous side while they were spending so much time together. 

In his eyes, the fun had only just begun.


	5. Hazing Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Raking a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, he yawned loudly and staggered to his feet. He could still feel the effects of the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed the night before, and the desire to shower and brush his teeth became the number one priority on his to-do list. But as he grabbed his toiletries and a towel, his gaze once again fell on Tom’s sleeping face, and a cheeky smile tilted his lips. He knew he should leave well enough alone, but he could not resist teasing Tom again, and sitting on the edge of his bed, he savored the moment for a second before tracing a light finger over the young officer’s face. “Wakey, wakey, Hanson,” he crooned softly._
> 
> _An incoherent mumble was the only response Booker received and smothering a laugh, he ran his fingers through Tom’s tousled hair. “C’mon, beautiful, time to get up.”_
> 
> _A lazy smile played over Tom’s lips, and he slowly opened his eyes. But when he saw Booker sitting next to him, he let out a yelp of surprise and pushing up onto his elbows, he gazed at his adversary with wide, startled eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”_
> 
> _Booker winked suggestively, a broad grin lighting up his face. “Nothing,” he replied innocently._
> 
> _Pulling the covers up to his chin, Tom stared at the dark-haired officer with distrust. “You were stroking my hair… you called me beautiful.”_
> 
> _It took all of Booker’s willpower to stifle the laugh that threatened to bubble from his throat. “I never touched you. Sorry to ruin your fantasy, Tommy, but you must have been dreaming.”_
> 
> _Tom’s face flushed red, and his left eye twitched nervously. “No, I wasn’t,” he replied in a rush of words, but his expression was unsure, and he blinked uncertainly, his blush deepening._
> 
> _Feeling a little guilty, but unwilling to admit to his prank, Booker patted Tom on the shoulder and rising to his feet, he walked to the door. “I’ll meet you for breakfast in the dining hall. Okay?”_
> 
> _Confused by the early morning events, Tom slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, okay. See you there.”_
> 
> _As he left the room, Booker felt another pang of remorse, but his contrition did not suppress the grin that twitched at his lips. The bewildered look in Tom’s eyes had made the joke worthwhile, and he knew it would be difficult to contain his mischievous side while they were spending so much time together._
> 
> _In his eyes, the fun had only just begun._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35798542402/in/dateposted-public/)

Standing in the basement of the Pi Tau house, Booker cast a furtive eye at the other pledges. Apart from Tom and himself, there were five other candidates. Four of the young men looked like they belonged there, they were the poster children of any American fraternity; good looking, athletic, and judging by their attire, wealthy. However, the fifth candidate’s demeanor was the polar opposite of his fellow pledges. Small in stature, he wore large horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to twice their natural size, giving him the appearance of a startled deer caught in a car’s headlights. He had the unfortunate name of Harold Horshack, and with his narrow, stooped shoulders, and pale, skinny arms flecked with freckles, he was a common sparrow amongst majestic peacocks. Every pledge except Tom outweighed him by at least forty pounds, and although Hanson was not muscular, he _was_ wiry and more than capable of holding his own in a fight. Horshack was a fish out of water, a boy amongst men and Booker felt a pang of sympathy for him. He had a horrible feeling the scrawny freshman was about to be eaten alive.

The sound of two sets of footsteps descending the stairs echoed throughout the basement, and all seven pledges turned their heads in the direction of the wooden steps. Two Pi Tau brothers entered the large room, the smaller of the two wearing a welcoming smile and standing in front of the freshmen, he studied each one in turn before speaking.

“My name is Todd Stevenson,” he introduced in a loud voice. “Your first responsibility as a pledge is to learn the history of the fraternity. Your second responsibility is to memorize the name and bios of every active and pledge brother, the latter should be accomplished by say, nine tomorrow morning. Now, I wish you all the very best of luck as I leave you in the trusted hands of your Pledge Master, Michael McCarter.” 

After offering a hint of a smile as a parting goodbye, he walked back up the steps and into the kitchen, closing the basement door behind him.

McCarter stepped forward, a smirk playing over his lips as he addressed the pledges. “Welcome to Hell Week, gentlemen. During this week, you’ll be put through a number of activities that will test your mental aptitude as well as develop your personal character. We will mold you into brothers, a brother who abides honor, trust, and friendship. As a pledge, you must do anything asked of you by an active. Understood?”

Booker leaned over to Tom and whispered in his ear. “Doesn’t sound too—”

“NO TALKING!” McCarter barked, his demeanor changing from friendly to furious in the space of a few seconds. With his shoulders squared, he walked over to where the two undercover officers stood and glared into Booker’s face before yelling, “IS... THAT... UNDER… _STOOD?”_

Wincing slightly at the force and proximity of the young man’s rage, Booker refrained from retaliating with a smart-ass comment, but he could not resist replying with a small amount of sass. “Yes! _Sir!”_

McCarter’s blue eyes narrowed as he studied Booker’s impudent expression. “Dennis Brody? Am I right?” he asked with a fake, toothy smile.

When Booker once again replied with a military, “Yes! _Sir!”_ Tom barely managed to swallow down the derisive snort that bubbled to the surface. He was finding the whole disciplinary charade farcical, and once again he wondered why _anyone_ would subject themselves to such ridicule. But when McCarter’s glare focused on him, he attempted to play the submissive part and dutifully lowered his gaze. However, he was unable to suppress the small grin that tilted the corners of his lips when he muttered his apology. “Sorry.”

“Seems like we’ve got ourselves a couple of wannabe comedians,” McCarter stated in a mocking voice. “Perhaps Brody and Harris would like to volunteer for our first activity.”

The two officers exchanged glances, but unlike Tom, Booker remained unperturbed. “Sure. Why not?” he replied with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

A cruel glint flashed in McCarter’s cold blue eyes, but he quickly disguised it with a smile. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, and walking over to a long workbench, he gestured towards an assortment of knives, forks, and spoons that lay in front of a three-slotted utensil holder.

“You’re up, Harris,” he commanded with a smile, and when Tom raised a questioning eyebrow, the Pledge Master carefully explained the rules. “It’s really very simple, guys. When I say fork, you pick up a fork in your right hand and put it in the left slot. When I say spoon, you pick up a spoon in your left hand and put it in the middle slot. When I say knife, you pick up a knife in your right hand and put it in the right slot. Always keep track of how many utensils are in each slot. Okay?”

When nobody spoke, he emitted a sigh. “Begin.”

“Give ‘em hell, Tommy!” Booker called out, a hint of a laugh ringing in his voice.

“NO TALKING!” McCarter screamed, the fury in his eyes and loud resonance of his voice causing Horshack to tremble visibly. Several long seconds passed before he spoke again, this time in a voice that was calm but cold. “Fork.”

Tom glanced at Booker before picking up a fork in his right hand and placing it in the left slot.

“Knife.”

“Knife.”

“Spoon.”

“Knife.”

“Fork.”

“Fork.”

As McCarter barked out the names of the utensils, Tom tried desperately to keep up, but he faltered, and a knife clattered back onto the wooden bench.

“CONCENTRATE!” McCarter yelled. “C’mon, Harris! What are you? A moron?”

When Tom remained silent, McCarter’s hand gestured toward the end of the table. “Now over here, we have some raw egg cocktail, some buttermilk, some prime liver and my _personal_ favorite, chili pepper. Actually, it’s really chili rub, ‘cause the next mistake you make, your brother _Dennis_ gets to smear it _all_ over his lips. Got it?”

Tom rubbed a nervous hand over his mouth. “Got it.”

“Fork.”

“Spoon.”

“Spoon.”

“Knife.”

“Fork.”

“Spoon... oops, wrong slot, Harris,” McCarter grinned fiendishly. “Looks like Brody’s gonna get to try the chili rub. Nah, hold it. Horshack, give me an egg instead.”

Harold Horshack hesitated for a moment before giving Booker an apologetic look and passing a raw egg to McCarter. With a loud crack, McCarter broke the egg into a glass and passed it to Booker. “Drink up, Brody.”

After a night of heavy drinking, Booker’s stomach lurched and a wave of nausea rolled over him. However, his stubbornness and _tough guy_ persona prevented him from publicly displaying the queasiness that billowed within his gut. Instead, he licked his lips theatrically and with a _devil may care_ grin, he swallowed the egg whole. Without missing a beat, he emitted a satisfied _ahh_ and forcing out a loud burp, he placed the glass back on the bench and rubbed his stomach. “Mmm, yummy.”

McCarter’s expression darkened, but like Booker, he was determined to save face and instead of commenting, he spat out the names of the utensils in quick succession. 

“Spoon.”

“Knife.”

“Knife.”

“Fork.”

“Knife.”

“Spoon.”

When Tom faltered again, he shot Booker an apologetic look. He knew the dark-haired officer was suffering a hangover, and eating raw eggs would add to his discomfort, but there was nothing he could do. They both had a part to play, and they needed to play it convincingly for the sake of the assignment.

“We have all day, and all night, gentlemen,” McCarter advised the seven pledges. “We _will_ get this right.”

The game continued for a further five minutes, with Booker downing a total of five eggs. It was then McCarter realized he was not going to get a reaction out of the tough, dark-haired pledge, and so he changed tack. Smiling a tight, thin-lipped smile that did not reach his eyes, he ignored Booker and wrapping a companionable arm around Horshack’s narrow shoulders, he addressed Tom in a faux pleasant voice. “The next time you get it wrong, Harold here will get to swallow two _rotten_ eggs.”

An unsettled expression furrowed Tom’s brow. “Hey, man. Isn’t that a little—”

“DID I ASK FOR YOUR OPINION?” McCarter screamed, the force of his words spraying a fine mist of spittle over Hanson’s face.

Screwing his eyes closed for a moment in disgust, Tom wiped the tiny droplets of saliva from his skin. “No,” he replied through clenched teeth, “but eating rotten eggs is gonna make him sick.”

Ignoring Tom’s comment, McCarter began his recital. “Spoon.” When Tom remained motionless, he stepped forward and yelled directly into his ear. “SPOON!”

Hanson threw Booker another look, but all he received in return was a slight nod of the head, and so with a heavy sigh, he picked up the spoon with his left hand and placed it in the middle slot.

“Knife.”

“Knife.”

“Spoon.”

“Knife.”

“Fork.”

“Spoon.”

“Knife… WRONG!”

The color drained from Harold Horshack’s freckled face, giving him the sickly appearance of a man who knew his fate was sealed. An evil grin played over McCarter’s lips and picking up two eggs from a separate bowl, he cracked them into the glass. Immediately the offensive stench of hydrogen sulfide gas rose from the tumbler, filling the room with a foul odor, and several pledges pinched their nostrils closed in protest. Horshack’s skin pallor turned green, and he took a step back, his magnified eyes appearing even larger as they filled with fear. “I can’t drink that.”

Seemingly unperturbed by the repugnant smell of the putrid eggs, McCarter held the glass out to the horrified pledge. “You _will_ drink it,” he instructed in a low, menacing voice. “Because if you don’t, your dream of becoming a Pi Tau ends here.”

When Horshack reached out for the glass, Tom stepped forward and grasping hold of his thin wrist, he flashed him a warm smile. “Hey, man, it's not worth it. You’re better than this.”

Horshack’s panicked eyes flitted from McCarter to Tom and back again. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I _have_ to. My father and grandfather are Pi Tau alumni. It’s a tradition. They’ll be so disappointed in me if I don’t get accepted.”

Unable to stomach Horshack’s pathetic demeanor, Booker attempted to reason with the Pledge Master. “C’mon, McCarter, this is bullshit, and you know it. You’ve made your point. Let’s move on.”

A sinister shadow passed over McCarter’s face, but when he spoke, he was surprisingly calm. “Okay, _hero,_ maybe we should try a _new_ activity. How about a friendly boxing match between you and your _oh so caring_ buddy Harris.”

But Booker was not that easily fooled and tilting his head on one side, he gave the Pi Tau brother a wary look. “What’s the catch?”

McCarter’s lips twitched at the edges. “The _catch,_ Brody, is if one of you doesn’t knock the other one out, Horshack here not only gets to eat the eggs, if he vomits, he gets to eat that too.”

The two undercover officers exchanged worried glances. Neither of them wanted to witness poor, pathetic Harold ingesting rotten eggs, but they also did not take kindly to McCarter’s obvious use of manipulation. However, they were there to expose alleged brutalities at the Pi Tau house and therefore, they both came to the conclusion they did not have any choice. They had to go along with what was asked of them… at least for the interim.

But before Booker could accept the challenge, Tom spoke up. “What if we refuse?” he asked quietly, his eyes never leaving Horshack’s stressed face. “Then what?”

 _“Then,_ Mister Harris, Horshack will be _forced_ to eat the rotten eggs and when he spews them back up… and he _will_ spew them back up, then _everyone_ gets to enjoy the taste of his vomit because you’ll _all_ be licking it off the floor.”

With narrow, angry eyes, Booker stepped forward and slapped Tom companionably on the back. “C’mon, Tommy, let’s just get this over with.”

Although unconvinced they were doing the right thing, Tom nodded. “Okay.”

“Excellent!” McCarter exclaimed with a wicked smile and strolling over to the shelves adorning the length of the back wall, he grabbed two pairs of boxing gloves. “Here you go, fellas,” he called out as he tossed the gloves to the two men. “Just remember, you’re to fight, not spar, got it?”

After a pledge had laced up his gloves, Booker knocked them together and grinned playfully at Tom. “Seems straightforward enough. Ready for a thrashing, Harris?”

Unafraid, Tom waggled his eyebrows and raising his gloved hands, he gave Booker a _bring it on_ look. “In your dreams, Brody.”

The two young officers locked eyes and slowly circled each other; their brows creased in deep concentration. Several seconds passed before Booker threw the first punch, a jab-right cross, his fist harmlessly connecting with Tom’s raised gloves. Enthusiastic cheering from the sidelines encouraged them to spar, and he continued to circle Tom, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet and throwing punches when he saw an opening. Hanson fought back, but he was easily outmatched by his opponent, and sweat soon slicked his slender body. Adrenaline pumped through Booker’s veins, heightening his senses and he landed several vicious punches on Tom’s torso. Worried that he might hurt the smaller officer, he immediately pulled back, but McCarter’s loud voice soon echoed throughout the basement.

“GET FIGHTING, GENTLEMEN, OR HORSHACK’S GONNA BE FORCE FED THOSE EGGS!”

With McCarter’s threat ringing in their ears, the undercover officers' innocuous sparring soon turned into a vicious fight. Booker pummeled Tom relentlessly, his fists connecting with the soft tissue of the smaller man's upper body. Tom kept his arms raised, desperately trying to protect his face from the savage onslaught. But when Booker shoved him violently, he staggered backward, and his arms dropped as he tried to regain his balance. Dennis saw his opening and with lightning speed, he landed a stinging right uppercut to Tom’s jaw, the force sending the smaller man reeling before his legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor.

Dropping to his knees, Booker threw one, last, brutal punch before leaning forward, and pressing his mouth against Tom’s ear. “Stay down,” he whispered, his heavy breath tickling the perspiration soaked flesh of Tom’s face. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

Humiliated by the beating Booker had given him, Tom desperately wanted to jump to his feet and continue fighting. But he knew he lacked the stamina and expertise to take Booker down, and unable to deal with the shame of being overpowered so easily, he blinked back tears and violently shoved his opponent away. “Gerroff me!”

Booker sat back on his heels and held his hands up in surrender. “Take it easy, Tom,” he placated quietly, the pain in his partner’s voice softening his dark eyes.

McCarter’s face came into view, and he grinned maniacally down at Tom. “One… two… three…” he counted. When he reached ten and Hanson remained lying on the floor, he grabbed Booker by the wrist and held his arm above his head. “We have a winner!”

Disgusted by the Pledge Master’s jubilant jeer, Booker pulled his hand away. With his gloves inhibiting his dexterity, he clumsily tried to help Tom to his feet, but Hanson pulled away, his lower lip pushing into a stubborn pout. “I don’t need your help,” he muttered and scrambling to a standing position, he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

Worried Tom might have a concussion, Booker thrust his hands in front of Horshack. “Get these fucking gloves off me and someone help Tom.”

“I’m _fine!”_ Tom snapped, but despite the exertion of the fight, his face was devoid of any color.

Once free of the restrictive gloves, Booker hurried forward and laying his hands on Tom’s shoulders, he gazed into his tortured eyes. “Are you sure you’re—”

“I SAID I’M FUCKING FINE!” Tom yelled and pushing Booker away, he stormed across the room and stomped up the wooden staircase.

When a warm hand rested on his shoulder, Booker spun around. _“What?”_ he growled at Horshack, his concern for Tom bringing his anger to the fore.

Horshack’s pale eyes filled with tears. “I just wanted to say, thank you,” he muttered. “You know, for what you and Harris did.”

Booker’s dark eyes softened. “Don’t mention it,” he murmured and turning away, he addressed McCarter. “Are we done?”

McCarter’s mouth split into a grin. “For now. Enjoy the rest of your day, gentlemen.”

The five other pledges made a hasty retreat, leaving Booker and McCarter in the dimly lit room. When the basement door slammed shut, McCarter’s grin vanished, and his expression hardened. “You’re a tough nut, aren’t you, Brody?” he commented in a low, taunting voice. “I think I’m going to enjoy getting you to crack.”

Unwilling to give the sadistic college senior anymore of his time, Booker turned away without answering and exited the basement.


	6. Try a Little Tenderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Humiliated by the beating Booker had given him, Tom desperately wanted to jump to his feet and continue fighting. But he knew he lacked the stamina and expertise to take Booker down, and unable to deal with the shame of being overpowered so easily, he blinked back tears and violently shoved his opponent away. “Gerroff me!”_
> 
> _Booker sat back on his heels and held his hands up in surrender. “Take it easy, Tom,” he placated quietly, the pain in his partner’s voice softening his dark eyes._
> 
> _McCarter’s face came into view, and he grinned maniacally down at Tom. “One… two… three…” he counted. When he reached ten and Hanson remained lying on the floor, he grabbed Booker by the wrist and held his arm above his head. “We have a winner!”_
> 
> _Disgusted by the Pledge Master’s jubilant jeer, Booker pulled his hand away. With his gloves inhibiting his dexterity, he clumsily tried to help Tom to his feet, but Hanson pulled away, his lower lip pushing into a stubborn pout. “I don’t need your help,” he muttered and scrambling to a standing position, he swayed unsteadily on his feet._
> 
> _Worried Tom might have a concussion, Booker thrust his hands in front of Horshack. “Get these fucking gloves off me and someone help Tom.”_
> 
> _“I’m fine!” Tom snapped, but despite the exertion of the fight, his face was devoid of any color._
> 
> _Once free of the restrictive gloves, Booker hurried forward and laying his hands on Tom’s shoulders, he gazed into his tortured eyes. “Are you sure you’re—”_
> 
> _“I SAID I’M FUCKING FINE!” Tom yelled and pushing Booker away, he stormed across the room and stomped up the wooden staircase._
> 
> _When a warm hand rested on his shoulder, Booker spun around. “What?” he growled at Horshack, his concern for Tom bringing his anger to the fore._
> 
> _Horshack’s pale eyes filled with tears. “I just wanted to say, thank you,” he muttered. “You know, for what you and Harris did.”_
> 
> _Booker’s dark eyes softened. “Don’t mention it,” he murmured and turning away, he addressed McCarter. “Are we done?”_
> 
> _McCarter’s mouth split into a grin. “For now. Enjoy the rest of your day, gentlemen.”_
> 
> _The five other pledges made a hasty retreat, leaving Booker and McCarter in the dimly lit room. When the basement door slammed shut, McCarter’s grin vanished, and his expression hardened. “You’re a tough nut, aren’t you, Brody?” he commented in a low, taunting voice. “I think I’m going to enjoy getting you to crack.”_
> 
> _Unwilling to give the sadistic college senior anymore of his time, Booker turned away without answering and exited the basement._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35129414034/in/dateposted-public/)

When Booker arrived at the dorm room, he found Tom curled up on his mattress, his face protectively covered by his arm. A heavy ache throbbed in the dark-haired officer’s heart and closing the door, he walked over to the side of Tom’s bed and sat down. His hand hovered over Hanson’s trembling body, unsure whether to offer comfort or leave him be. Tom was wary of contact, and he did not want to cause him more pain than he already had. The seconds ticked slowly by, but eventually his heart ruled his head, and taking a deep breath, he lowered his hand gently onto Tom’s side. But he quickly snatched it away when the younger officer visibly winced in pain. A deep frown furrowed his brow, and he rubbed an anxious hand over his lips. “Shit, Tommy, are you okay?”

“Leave me alone,” Tom mumbled into the crook of his arm.

Pushing his lip into a stubborn pout, Booker narrowed his eyes as he studied Tom’s quivering body. “Not until I know you’re all right.”

Tom lowered his arm and slowly rolled onto his back, his breath catching in his throat as a sharp pain flared in his ribs. “I’m fine,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“You don’t look fine,” Booker commented softly, his eyes filling with concern. “So how ‘bout letting me have a look?”

Too tired and sore to argue, Tom started to give his consent. But the pain radiating throughout his tired, battered body suddenly overwhelmed him. He felt emasculated; he was as weak and pathetic as Harold Horshack, and he wished he were anywhere but lying on a bed with Booker towering over him, mocking him with his muscular physique. He fought valiantly to contain the emotions bubbling inside him, but he only just managed to gulp back the tears that threatened to spill from his tortured eyes. Booker's tender scrutiny of his face seemed to last forever, and it did not take long for him to lose his internal struggle. His lower lip started to wobble, his eyes filled with unwanted tears, and the words he attempted to speak turned into a strangled, unintelligible sob of pain and humiliation.

Mortified by his lack of control, he threw an arm back over his face, hiding his shame as his body trembled with raw emotion. He was a psychological wreck; he hated revealing his weakness and vulnerability to Booker. Waves of embarrassment washed over him, and he wished he could crawl under a rock and die, rather than face the ridicule of the man he considered his nemesis. His dignity lay in tatters, and he knew in his heart Booker would never let him forget the moment his bravado collapsed; revealing a pitiful, broken man.

But he could not have been more wrong. The distressing sight of Tom's emotional breakdown actually caused Booker’s heart to fill with pain, and compassion softened his dark eyes. “Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured as he tenderly rubbed at Hanson’s arm. “I’ll just lift your shirt and have a quick look, then you can rest.”

A loud sniff was the only answer he received, and therefore, he took Tom’s silence as consent to proceed. With trembling fingers, he carefully lifted the sweat-soaked tee shirt, revealing the younger officer’s naked flesh. 

A loud gasp sounded from between his lips as his eyes traveled over Tom’s damaged body. Dozens of angry red bruises covered Hanson's torso, the mottled contusions marring the perfection of his smooth skin. The worst of his injuries were contained to the left side of his rib cage, and Booker’s cheeks flamed crimson with shame. By not standing up to a bully, he had caused the man he loved an inordinate amount of pain and misery, and he instantly regretted his decision to fight. However, common sense soon calmed the remorseful hammering of his heart. They were undercover cops, and sometimes they had to endure painful mental and physical torment so they could collar the bad guys. It was all part of the job, and Tom knew it just as well as he did. However, the knowledge only alleviated _some_ of his guilt, and the shock of the injuries laid out before him brought penitent tears to his eyes. 

“Oh, Tommy, I’m _so_ sorry,” he whispered, and without thinking what reaction he might provoke, he lightly trailed his fingers over Hanson's bruised and battered skin. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The tenderness of Booker’s touch brought goosebumps to Tom’s naked flesh, and the fine hairs covering his body stood to attention. He inhaled a sharp intake of breath, the erotic sensation of soft fingertips caressing his skin igniting a fire within, the unexpected arousal casting doubt over the certainty of his heterosexuality. Panic gripped his heart as conflicting feelings overwhelmed him, and although he relished the comforting touch, he pushed the warm hand away. There was no question his reaction was a definitive signal for Booker to stop, but the motion was gentle, not forceful, and for a split second, their fingers entwined, uniting them as one. 

But the moment was fleeting, a mere sensory pleasure of the flesh that became a memory before it had a chance to evolve into something more meaningful and Booker immediately mourned the loss of contact. For the briefest of moments, he and Tom had connected, and he longed to feel that kinship again. However, there were more pressing issues at hand and swallowing down his emotions, his expression became serious. “I think you might have cracked a couple of ribs. You should go to the hospital.”

Without lowering the arm covering his face, Tom shook his head. He was too embarrassed to meet Booker's tender gaze, too afraid his eyes would betray him and reflect the confusion he was feeling about the dark-haired officer's tender ministrations. He had expected Dennis to mock him, to flaunt his superiority and prowess as a fighter. Instead, he had shown a caring and compassionate side of his personality that Tom had not known existed. It was a startling revelation, and he suddenly questioned everything he thought he knew about the enigma that was Dennis Booker.

Pulled out of his reverie by a light hand resting on his thigh, he jumped involuntarily, the movement forcing a rush of air from between his lips as a sharp stabbing pain radiated in his chest. Feeling foolish, he slowly lowered his arm and attempted to smile through his misery. “I’m fine. Just get something from the nurse.”

Unconvinced, Booker's expression remained anxious. “Is it painful to breathe? I’ve fractured my ribs, and it hurts like a bitch.”

Grateful that Dennis was attempting to assuage his feelings of fragility and inadequacy, Tom’s face relaxed into an appreciative smile. “Yeah, I kinda figured that out for myself,” he joked in a halfhearted attempt at humor. “But if you tape me up, I’m sure they’ll heal just fine.”

Pleased that Tom had found an inner tenacity to help him fight through the pain, Booker stood up. “Okay, but I want to reassess your condition in a couple of hours, and if you’re still in a lot of pain, you’ll agree to go to the hospital. Deal?”

Touched by Booker’s level of concern, Tom grinned back. “Yes, mom.”

A slow, sweet smile played over Booker’s lips and an impish twinkle lit up his eyes. “It’s not your mom I wanna be, Hanson,” he teased softly.

On cue, Tom’s cheeks flamed red, the pink hue highlighting the paleness of his fatigued face. But instead of responding with an acerbic comment, he chuckled softly. The movement vibrated through his damaged ribs and wrapping a stabilizing arm around his chest, he moaned softly.

But when Booker rushed to his side, he started to laugh, his eyes watering from a mixture of pain and amusement. “I’ve gotta give you points for trying, Booker,” he grinned. “Maybe one day your persistence will pay off.”

Shocked by the remark, Dennis gave a convincing impression of Cletus the Slack-jawed Yokel. His mouth gaped open, and he stared at Hanson with wide, confused eyes. Although he knew the younger man was joking, the shift in his attitude was bewildering. Only an hour before, he had beaten the shit out of Tom—albeit not by choice—and now it appeared he was being seduced with promises. It was a perplexing situation and the ability to save face with a witty comeback eluded him. For once, Tom had the upper hand, and his face burned red with embarrassment as he struggled to think of something smart to say. But his brain had turned to mush, and feeling flustered, all he could manage was a garbled, “I’ll be back in a minute,” before turning away and hurrying from the room.

**

The first thing Booker saw when he returned was Tom sitting propped against a pillow, a protective arm wrapped around his damaged ribs, and a look of pain etched on his beautiful face. With his composure now restored, he entered the room with a grin and held up a roll of tape. “Success!”

A smile crinkled the corners of Tom’s eyes before a bout of pain overwhelmed him, the discomfort contorting his grateful expression into a grimace. It was obvious that his suffering was beginning to take its toll, and Booker quickly closed the door and walked over to the bed. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a box of Advil and removing the foil packaging, he popped two tablets into his palm and offered them to Tom. “For the pain,” he explained simply.

Tom took the tablets without comment and placing them on his tongue, he pulled a wry face and swallowed them down with an audible gulp. Meanwhile, Booker busied himself by tearing off several long strips of tape. He stuck the ends to the nightstand, and when he was done, he sat down on the bed, his lips tilting into a rueful smile. “I need to take off your tee shirt. Are you okay with that or do you want to do it yourself?”

Although Booker’s intimate touch had awakened a sense of deep sexual confusion inside him, Tom had passed the point of caring. All he wanted to do was go to sleep and forget the whole demeaning experience, at least for a few hours. If achieving that goal meant consenting to contact, then he was prepared to give Dennis carte blanche to do what needed to be done. He had no idea why he had flirted with the dark-haired officer just minutes before. All he knew for certain was the ache in his upper body was physically and mentally wearing him down, and analyzing the whys and wherefores of his changing attitude toward his nemesis would not cure the pain radiating throughout his body. Whether he liked it or not, he needed Booker’s help, and everything else was incidental. He would worry about the strange feelings the older man’s tender touch elicited inside him at a later date…

Or not.

With a resigned sigh, he finally admitted defeat. “I’m gonna need help,” he muttered, his pale, drawn face showing signs of fatigue.

Booker’s expression became serious, and he slowly nodded his head. “Okay, raise your arms as high as you can and I’ll pull your tee shirt over your head.”

The very idea of moving filled Tom with a mixture of apprehension and embarrassment. He did not trust the fragile state of his emotions, and he feared revealing his weaknesses to Booker again. However, when he saw the deep look of compassion radiating from Dennis’ soft brown eyes, he realized it did not matter. Booker was not the ogre he had made him out to be, in fact, he was proving himself to be a sympathetic friend and a gentle caregiver, much to his surprise. Therefore, without overthinking it, he took a breath and raised his arms above his head.

The movement stretched his bruised muscles, immediately transmitting a sharp pain throughout the damaged area of his left side. He hissed sharply, but within seconds, his sweaty tee shirt was pulled over his head, and gentle hands slowly lowered his arms. He smiled gratefully at Booker, and he received a tender smile in return, coupled with a lingering, intense gaze. The smile and depth of the look had an unsettling effect on him, and his stomach rolled into flip-flops of arousal, again awakening an unexplained desire. He quickly lowered his eyes, breaking the hypnotic state he found himself falling into with each passing second of eye contact. But he could still feel the heat of Booker’s touch as the dark-haired officer continued to hold his wrists, the warm fingers heating his clammy skin. Embarrassed by his reaction, he slowly pulled his hands away. Blood pounded in his ears and his breath hitched in his throat as the beating of his heart became more erratic. He was spiraling back into a pit of confusion, but he did not have the energy to deal with the conflicting feelings. So, like a small child, he screwed his eyes closed and pretended it wasn't happening.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Sensing Tom was struggling with an inner disturbance, Booker decided to take a step back and not probe into the reasons. Instead, he freed a piece of tape from the nightstand and held it in his fingers. "Lift your left arm," he instructed softly. "I'm gonna start taping your ribs."

Keeping his eyes closed, Tom held his arm away from his body. Booker placed a strip of tape at the center of Hanson's spine and ran it diagonally towards his stomach. Grabbing another strip, he overlapped half of the tape and repeated the process until the whole of Tom’s rib cage was covered. When he was satisfied with his work, he laid a gentle hand on Hanson’s thigh. “All done.”

A pained smile pulled Tom’s lips tight, but his eyes remained closed as the Advil in his system finally started to take effect. “I think I might sleep for a while,” he muttered wearily.

Booker hesitated for a moment, his eyes wandering over Tom’s clothed body before asking what he knew was a delicate question. “Do you want me to help you undress? You’ll be more comfortable.”

Although Tom visibly stiffened at the idea of Booker undressing him, he knew it made sense and relaxing back against the pillow, he once again pushed aside his reservations. “Okay,” he whispered, a hint of pink coloring his pale cheeks.

Dennis understood Tom’s reluctance, but his motives were, in every way, pure. He was worried about the younger man’s condition, especially because he was the cause of all his pain, and he wanted him to rest comfortably. There was no underlying teasing in his intentions, and he understood he needed to undress Tom as quickly as possible so as not to cause him any further embarrassment. 

Without waiting for further discussion, he quickly unlaced Tom’s boots and pulled them off. Next, he removed his socks and placed them neatly inside the boots. He had no idea why, he was normally very messy, but a knowing voice inside his head mocked him, telling him he was stalling, putting off what he both longed and feared to do. The previous day he had purposely needled Tom when he had undressed, provoking him in the hopes of a reaction. But now that Tom lay defenseless before him, like a vision from his dreams, he felt like a predator. It was not what he wanted; he would _never_ take advantage of another human being, no matter how easy it might be. He might be a rakish sonofabitch at times, but he was not immoral. However, his inner conflict had him feeling a little foolish; it was only a pair of jeans he was removing, not Tom’s underwear and another little voice inside his head told him to get a grip and just do it. After all, it was what Tom wanted.

His hand hovered over the fly of Tom’s jeans for a moment before he took a deep breath and popped the button. Surprisingly, Tom did not react and feeling more comfortable about the whole procedure, he cautiously lowered the zipper. Without waiting to be asked, Tom slowly raised his buttocks off the bed, and knowing the position must be aggravating his friend’s damaged ribs, Booker swallowed down the last of his trepidation and biting down on his lower lip, he quickly pulled down the worn jeans.

The weight of the denim dragged down Tom's boxers, revealing a tantalizing tuft of dark pubic hair above the waistband. Booker unconsciously licked his lips before casting an eye at Hanson's face, but the young officer's eyes remained closed. Either he was oblivious to his partial state of undress, or he did not care, and Booker wondered how to proceed. After a moment’s delay, he decided to release Tom’s legs from the confines of his jeans and cover him with the duvet from his bed, thereby saving him from any further embarrassment. He felt awash with a protective, nurturing love for Tom that extended far deeper than his initial infatuation. It was what most women would identify with as a _mothering_ instinct, and he could not remember anyone having such an intense effect on his senses. The sentiment was beyond any feeling he had ever experienced. It was love in its purest form and at that moment, he knew he would lay down his life for the man lying before him.

After carefully removing Tom’s jeans, he neatly folded them and laid them on the seat of the chair. He picked up the sweaty tee shirt and hung it over the back, and lastly, he placed Tom’s boots underneath. Satisfied everything was in order, he gathered up his duvet and being careful not to disturb Tom’s injuries, he covered his prone body. 

All the while, Hanson had remained silent, and it was only when he was safely ensconced in the warm quilt that he murmured one, sleepy word. “Thanks.”


	7. Tides of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I apologize for the humiliation I put Tom through, but as you know, I'm a sucker for a bit of hurt/comfort.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Booker hesitated for a moment, his eyes wandering over Tom’s clothed body before asking what he knew was a delicate question. “Do you want me to help you undress? You’ll be more comfortable.”_
> 
> _Although Tom visibly stiffened at the idea of Booker undressing him, he knew it made sense and relaxing back against the pillow, he once again pushed aside his reservations. “Okay,” he whispered, a hint of pink coloring his pale cheeks._
> 
> _Dennis understood Tom’s reluctance, but his motives were, in every way, pure. He was worried about the younger man’s condition, especially because he was the cause of all his pain, and he wanted him to rest comfortably. There was no underlying teasing in his intentions, and he understood he needed to undress Tom as quickly as possible so as not to cause him any further embarrassment._
> 
> _Without waiting for further discussion, he quickly unlaced Tom’s boots and pulled them off. Next, he removed his socks and placed them neatly inside the boots. He had no idea why, he was normally very messy, but a knowing voice inside his head mocked him, telling him he was stalling, putting off what he both longed and feared to do. The previous day he had purposely needled Tom when he had undressed, provoking him in the hopes of a reaction. But now that Tom lay defenseless before him, like a vision from his dreams, he felt like a predator. It was not what he wanted; he would never take advantage of another human being, no matter how easy it might be. He might be a rakish sonofabitch at times, but he was not immoral. However, his inner conflict had him feeling a little foolish; it was only a pair of jeans he was removing, not Tom’s underwear and another little voice inside his head told him to get a grip and just do it. After all, it was what Tom wanted._
> 
> _His hand hovered over the fly of Tom’s jeans for a moment before he took a deep breath and popped the button. Surprisingly, Tom did not react and feeling more comfortable about the whole procedure, he cautiously lowered the zipper. Without waiting to be asked, Tom slowly raised his buttocks off the bed, and knowing the position must be aggravating his friend’s damaged ribs, Booker swallowed down the last of his trepidation and biting down on his lower lip, he quickly pulled down the worn jeans._
> 
> _The weight of the denim dragged down Tom's boxers, revealing a tantalizing tuft of dark pubic hair above the waistband. Booker unconsciously licked his lips before casting an eye at Hanson's face, but the young officer's eyes remained closed. Either he was oblivious to his partial state of undress, or he did not care, and Booker wondered how to proceed. After a moment’s delay, he decided to release Tom’s legs from the confines of his jeans and cover him with the duvet from his bed, thereby saving him from any further embarrassment. He felt awash with a protective, nurturing love for Tom that extended far deeper than his initial infatuation. It was what most women would identify with as a mothering instinct, and he could not remember anyone having such an intense effect on his senses. The sentiment was beyond any feeling he had ever experienced. It was love in its purest form and at that moment, he knew he would lay down his life for the man lying before him._
> 
> _After carefully removing Tom’s jeans, he neatly folded them and laid them on the seat of the chair. He picked up the sweaty tee shirt and hung it over the back, and lastly, he placed Tom’s boots underneath. Satisfied everything was in order, he gathered up his duvet and being careful not to disturb Tom’s injuries, he covered his prone body._
> 
> _All the while, Hanson had remained silent, and it was only when he was safely ensconced in the warm quilt that he murmured one, sleepy word. “Thanks.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35159414723/in/dateposted-public/)

A dull ache in his ribs woke Tom from a restless sleep. As his mind became fully conscious, the pain steadily intensified and a low moan escaped from between his lips. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared around the room, his face a mask of confusion. For a moment, he had no memory of where he was, but everything soon became clear when his gaze settled on Booker. The dark-haired officer sat cross-legged on his bed reading a comic book, his brow creased in concentration. It was a strange sight to wake up to, and blinking drowsily, Tom rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. “How long have I been asleep?” 

Tossing his issue of _The Amazing Spider-Man #300_ onto the mattress, Booker smiled. “Nearly two hours. How’re you feeling?”

Tom pushed himself up to a sitting position, a faint tension shadowing his eyes. “Sore,” he admitted softly, “and I really gotta piss.”

“Do you need a hand?” Booker asked with a rush of concern, the words tumbling from his lips before he had time to consider how Tom might construe his misphrased comment.

A slow grin played over Tom’s lips, his eyes shining with amusement for a fraction of a second before once again, pain dulled the light. “Hmm, no thanks, I think I can manage.”

Booker rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his expression apologetic. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” Tom replied, a fleeting grin animating his face. “But it’s kinda nice being the one doing the teasing for a change.”

Unperturbed by the riposte, Booker replied with a soft snort. “Touché. I guess I deserved that.”

An awkward pause hung in the air until Booker spoke again, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “So, let me rephrase. Do you need _help_ getting to the bathroom?”

In only a few short minutes, the dull ache in Tom’s ribs had developed into a piercing stab and pain drilled into his side like a jackhammer. Although he did not want to display any further impuissance, he knew it would be foolish not to accept Booker’s offer of help. “Yeah,” he admitted with a heavy sigh, “I think I do.”

Pleased he was able to help, Booker climbed from his bed and stood next to Tom. “Swing your legs over the side of the bed,” he instructed. “Then I’m gonna lean down, and I want you to place your hands on my shoulders. Use me as support and I’ll lift you up. Let me know if I’m hurting you, okay?”

Tom nodded, a mixture of fear and apprehension in his eyes. He knew it was going to hurt like a bitch, but his need to urinate was becoming desperate, and if he did not get to the bathroom soon, he would end up embarrassing himself even further.

Clamping his teeth down on his lower lip, he gingerly maneuvered his legs so he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Pain flared in his side, but his expression remained stoic, a brief narrowing of his eyes the only indication of the discomfort he was experiencing. When Booker gently leaned forward, he placed his hands on his broad shoulders and waited. Moments later, two warm hands gently grasped him under his arms.

“Ready?” Booker asked, his voice tinged with tenderness.

“Ready,” Tom replied, and with a long, drawn out groan of pain, he rose to a standing position.

An unexpected wave of dizziness immediately swamped him, distorting his vision with flashes of color. Blinded by their intensity, he teetered unsteadily on his feet, certain he was about to faint. But strong hands kept him upright, and as he started to fade, he slumped against the protective weight of Booker’s muscular frame. Seconds later, he jerked back to consciousness, but not in time to stem the warm flow of urine that trickled down his thigh, the yellowish liquid staining the front of his boxers. Shock and humiliation widened his eyes and pulling away from Booker’s hold, he stumbled backward. 

“Fuck!” he cried in distress, his disbelieving gaze focusing on the yellow puddle pooling around his bare feet. “Oh, Jesus!”

Shock paralyzed Booker as he too stared down at the wet patch on the floor. But the agonized torment in Tom’s voice quickly pulled him out of his stupefied state and stepping forward, he laid a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay,” he reassured with a strained smile. 

Mortified by what he had done, Tom’s only defense was to lash out. “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” he yelled and pushing Booker away, he staggered unsteadily on his feet as pain flared in his ribs.

Holding his hands up in front of him, Booker stepped back and gave Tom some space. “Okay, calm down,” he placated in a soothing voice.

“CALM DOWN? CALM _DOWN?”_ Tom screamed, his pain momentarily forgotten as his humiliation slowly suffocated him. “I JUST PISSED MYSELF! HOW THE _FUCK_ DO YOU EXPECT ME TO CALM DOWN?”

Unable to come up with an answer to Hanson’s question, Booker remained silent. Eventually, overcome by embarrassment and pain, Tom’s rage morphed into emotional anguish. A sob caught in his throat and covering his face with his hands, he began to cry. The strong astringent odor of urine permeated the small room, the smell wafting into his nostrils, solidifying his shame. Never before had he felt so humiliated, so ashamed, and he was powerless to act, as though his free will had flowed from his body along with his waste. He stood paralyzed like a small child, waiting for someone, anyone, to make it right. To say what needed to be said to take away the pain and embarrassment. To tell him it was okay and to help soothe the ache that threatened to break his heart. To make everything better, with a look or a touch. But most importantly, to wave a magic wand and make him forget the most humiliating day of his life.

Without hesitation, Booker stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around Tom’s quivering body, pulling him protectively against his chest. Fatigue and pain had Tom desperately seeking comfort, and he did not fight against the intimacy of the embrace. Instead, he buried his face in the curve of Booker’s neck and wept openly. 

Hot tears trickled down Dennis' skin before disappearing into the soft material of his tee shirt. He felt useless in the face of Tom's adversity, and all he could think to do was rub the young officer’s back and murmur pointless platitudes into his ear in the hope they were in some way, comforting. It wasn't much, but he hoped it gave Tom some measure of solace.

The gentle words coupled with the sensation of a warm hand affectionately caressing the small of his back had the desired effect and Tom's sobs soon transformed into staccato hiccups. Lifting his head, he wiped a rough hand over his tear-stained face before settling his gaze on Booker's chest. A tense silence fell over the room, underscored by the sound of his heavy, distressed breathing. He could feel the heat of Booker’s palm against the bare skin of his lower back, the gentleness of the touch radiating through his body and sending an unexpected shiver down his spine that he could not interpret. Embarrassed and confused, he stepped back, his head bowed in shame. Never before had he felt so alone.

Consumed by his misery, he only became aware Booker had walked away when the dark-haired officer reappeared with a large white towel. “Strip,” Dennis instructed softly, holding the towel out horizontally so it shielded Tom’s lower body from sight. “Then I’ll help you to the bathroom so you can take a shower.”

With his cheeks flaming a deep shade of red, Tom slowly shook his head. “I need to clean this—”

“I’ll do it,” Booker replied quietly, his dark eyes shining with compassion born of a deep understanding. “You’ll feel better once you’ve showered, and then I think we should take a trip to the hospital.”

Tom’s head jerked up, and he stared at Dennis with wide, incredulous eyes. “I don’t need to go to the hospital! It was an accident! I fainted and—”

“I _know_ that,” Booker reassured with a kind, caring smile, “and it’s no big deal; it can happen to anyone. But you fainted for a reason, Tommy, and I think you need to get checked out by a doctor. You know, just to be safe.”

A familiar pout formed on Tom’s full lips, and his eyes blazed defiantly. “How many times do I have to say it?” he asked in a petulant tone. “I don’t _need_ to go to the hospital, and I don’t _want_ to go to the hospital. So drop it. Okay?”

Not wanting to upset Hanson any further, Booker sighed reluctantly. “Okay. But if you faint again…”

“I won't,” Tom replied quickly, his mouth set in a determined line. “I feel fine.”

Booker did not look convinced, but he played along with the lie, just to keep the peace. “Okay. If you say so. Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

After hesitating for a moment, Tom lowered his shorts. When they pooled around his ankles, he stepped free of the wet material and grabbing the towel from Booker’s hands, he wrapped it securely around his waist. Staring down at the floor, he exhaled a heavy breath. “I can’t let you clean that up,” he mumbled into his chest. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Yeah?” Booker responded with a cheeky grin. “Well, tough luck. You’re not the only one who can be stubborn, Hanson. If you don’t let me help you, I’m gonna drag you to the hospital, with or without that towel. Got it?”

A small smile played over Tom’s lips. “Are you gonna be a pain in my ass the whole time we're working together?”

Normally, Booker would have blurted out a witty comeback full of sexual innuendos, but the last few hours spent with Tom had seen a marked change in his attitude. It had not been a singular light bulb moment. Instead, he had slowly come to realize that teasing Tom wasn’t the only way to achieve the contact he craved. They had a lot in common, despite their differing lifestyles and he could see himself sitting down with him, enjoying a beer and _shooting the breeze_. Days ago, the scenario seemed an inconceivable concept, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn’t a pipe dream. He could even picture them having serious, life oriented conversations, and the imagery lightened his heart. Even though he knew he would never have Tom in the way he so desperately desired, he could see their relationship was evolving. There was now a sliver of hope that one day, he might have the same type of friendship with him that the younger officer had with Penhall; a brotherly bond, forged by love and respect. It was a long shot, but it no longer seemed like a fairy tale, in fact, it now seemed completely attainable.

Therefore, although the sexually suggestive comment was there for the taking, he bit his tongue and instead, gave Tom an innocuous reply. “It’s what I live for.”

Unaware of Booker’s sexual thoughts, Tom’s hesitant smile turned into a grin. “I’m sure it is.”

Smiling back, Booker’s eyes motioned toward the door. “Do you need help getting to the bathroom?”

With a shake of his head, Tom moved gingerly over to his bedside table, each step jarring his damaged ribs. However, he found an inner strength and swallowing down the pain, he picked up his toiletries. “I think I can manage,” he replied determinedly and taking a small, shallow breath, he walked toward the door. But as his hand grasped the knob, he paused and without turning around, he spoke in a soft, shy voice. “Um, Dennis? Thanks for… well, you know.”

The sound of Tom speaking his name sent a shiver of desire down Booker’s spine, and his eyes sparkled with happiness. “You’re welcome, Tom.”

**

Having sourced a mop, bucket and disinfectant from a friendly janitor, Dennis set about cleaning up. Much to his surprise, it felt quite natural rinsing out Tom’s boxers in the small hand basin in their room, and he smiled knowingly to himself. Big, bad Booker’s nurturing side had fully kicked in, and he allowed his imagination to wander. Visions of Tom living in his apartment, happily sharing his life as his partner flooded his mind, and a wistful sigh escaped from between his lips. He physically ached for the reality, and he wondered if he would ever find someone to love while his obsessive infatuation with the pretty officer continued to plague his every thought. 

With a shake of his head, he heaved another heavy sigh and wringing out the damp shorts, he draped them over the edge of the basin to dry. Next, he poured a capful of disinfectant into the bucket and filled it with hot water. Taking hold of the mop, he dipped it into the steaming liquid and washed over the floor. The whole cleaning process did not take long and he had enough time to return the cleaning supplies before Tom hobbled in, his freshly washed hair hanging limply in his eyes and a towel wrapped securely around his waist, protecting his modesty. 

Tender concern shone from Booker’s dark eyes as his gaze roamed over the damaged flesh of Tom’s torso. “Feeling better?”

Tom’s lips formed into his signature tilting smile. “Much.” But when his gaze settled on his dripping boxers hanging over the side of the basin, his body visibly tensed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

In an attempt to alleviate Tom’s obvious embarrassment, Booker shrugged his shoulders. “What are friends for?”

Surprise arched Tom’s eyebrows. “Friends?”

A wave of uncertainty stiffened Booker’s muscles and lowering his gaze, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Sure,” he replied softly. “Why not?”

The strained silence that followed weighed heavily on Booker’s fragile pride, and he wished he had kept his mouth shut. But before he could recant his statement with a caustic comment aimed to hurt, Tom spoke, a wide grin splitting his face. “Yeah, why not. You can never have too many friends, right?”

Booker’s head snapped upright. “Really?” he responded quickly, the shrill pitch of his voice conveying the elation in his heart. 

The excitement in Booker’s tone was not lost on Tom, and he immediately felt a pang of guilt. He had treated the dark-haired officer with contempt and hostility ever since their first case together, and he now regretted it. Booker was not a bad a person; he was just a little conceited at times and Tom now knew that was a flaw he could accept because it did not wholly define the officer as a person. There was much more to Dennis Booker than met the eye, and the intrigue was enough for him to want to get to know him better.

Sitting down on the bed, Tom struggled to maintain his composure as pain once again weakened his body. But he refused to allow it to show and grinning cheekily, he gave the response he knew Booker longed to hear. “Really.”

Relief relaxed the muscles in Booker’s jaw, and he smiled gratefully. He knew he needed to keep a level head and not smother Tom with affection, and therefore, he changed the conversation to their assignment. “So, do you think you’ll be all right to face the next phase of our hazing tomorrow?”

With the ache in his ribs now becoming more pronounced, Tom pulled back the duvet and slipped under the covers. Seconds later, much to Booker’s surprise and delight, he threw his towel onto the floor and snuggled beneath the warmth of the quilt. Knowing that Tom was lying naked just feet away from him sent a sexual thrill throughout Booker’s body and his cock hardened. But he knew he needed to ignore his feelings or lose Tom’s friendship and swallowing deeply, he suppressed a desirous sigh.

Innocently unaware of Booker’s lascivious reflections, Tom settled back against his pillow. “I’ll be fine,” he stated emphatically. “I just need to get some rest.”

Although not a hundred percent convinced, Booker let the matter drop. He would protect Tom in any way he could, and he hoped his presence would be enough to save the younger officer from McCarter’s brutal games. But little did he know, in less than a week, he would be the cause of all of Tom’s emotional pain and torment.


	8. Seal of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tender concern shone from Booker’s dark eyes as his gaze roamed over the damaged flesh of Tom’s torso. “Feeling better?”_
> 
> _Tom’s lips formed into his signature tilting smile. “Much.” But when his gaze settled on his dripping boxers hanging over the side of the basin, his body visibly tensed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”_
> 
> _In an attempt to alleviate Tom’s obvious embarrassment, Booker shrugged his shoulders. “What are friends for?”_
> 
> _Surprise arched Tom’s eyebrows. “Friends?”_
> 
> _A wave of uncertainty stiffened Booker’s muscles and lowering his gaze, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Sure,” he replied softly. “Why not?”_
> 
> _The strained silence that followed weighed heavily on Booker’s fragile pride, and he wished he had kept his mouth shut. But before he could recant his statement with a caustic comment aimed to hurt, Tom spoke, a wide grin splitting his face. “Yeah, why not. You can never have too many friends, right?”_
> 
> _Booker’s head snapped upright. “Really?” he responded quickly, the shrill pitch of his voice conveying the elation in his heart._
> 
> _The excitement in Booker’s tone was not lost on Tom, and he immediately felt a pang of guilt. He had treated the dark-haired officer with contempt and hostility ever since their first case together, and he now regretted it. Booker was not a bad a person; he was just a little conceited at times and Tom now knew that was a flaw he could accept because it did not wholly define the officer as a person. There was much more to Dennis Booker than met the eye, and the intrigue was enough for him to want to get to know him better._
> 
> _Sitting down on the bed, Tom struggled to maintain his composure as pain once again weakened his body. But he refused to allow it to show and grinning cheekily, he gave the response he knew Booker longed to hear. “Really.”_
> 
> _Relief relaxed the muscles in Booker’s jaw, and he smiled gratefully. He knew he needed to keep a level head and not smother Tom with affection, and therefore, he changed the conversation to their assignment. “So, do you think you’ll be all right to face the next phase of our hazing tomorrow?”_
> 
> _With the ache in his ribs now becoming more pronounced, Tom pulled back the duvet and slipped under the covers. Seconds later, much to Booker’s surprise and delight, he threw his towel on to the floor and snuggled beneath the warmth of the quilt. Knowing that Tom was lying naked just feet away from him sent a sexual thrill throughout Booker’s body and his cock hardened. But he knew he needed to ignore his feelings or lose Tom’s friendship and swallowing deeply, he suppressed a desirous sigh._
> 
> _Innocently unaware of Booker’s lascivious reflections, Tom settled back against his pillow. “I’ll be fine,” he stated emphatically. “I just need to get some rest.”_
> 
> _Although not a hundred percent convinced, Booker let the matter drop. He would protect Tom in any way he could, and he hoped his presence would be enough to save the younger officer from McCarter’s brutal games. But little did he know, in less than twenty-four hours, he would be the cause of all of Tom’s emotional pain and torment._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35969477305/in/dateposted-public/)

Dawn broke to an explosion of bird songs, the cacophony startling Booker awake with a disgruntled groan. Unimpressed by the early morning alarm clock, he angrily pulled his pillow over his head and attempted to drown out the noise. But after several minutes, the humorous fact that the sound easily penetrated through the downy feathers brought a good-natured smile to his lips, and with a resigned sigh, he threw the pillow to the floor and sat up.

From across the room, Tom yawned loudly, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. “Fucking birds. Do you think Fuller would mind if we used our guns under the guise of _keeping the peace?”_

The statement amused Booker and running his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair, he grinned back. “Probably.”

With a soft groan, Tom pushed himself to a sitting position and unconsciously mirroring Booker, he raked a hand over his head. The action left soft tufts of hair sticking out in every direction, creating the illusion of childlike innocence, and Booker had to swallow down the moan of arousal that rose from deep within his chest. Tom looked so damn adorable, and he felt an almost uncontrollable desire to leap from his bed and smother him with hot, passionate kisses. His cock instantly hardened at the thought and worried his sexual awakening could reach a point of no return, he quickly pushed the wishful thought from his mind. 

“So, whaddya think they’re gonna make us do today?” he asked in a strained voice, his mind desperately willing his cock to behave. “Do you think it’s gonna be as brutal as yesterday?”

Mistaking the tension in Booker’s voice as a lack of confidence in his ability to endure another physical challenge, Tom immediately went on the defensive. “Whatever it is, I can handle it,” he replied stiffly, the smile on his lips transforming into a thin, hard line. “I don’t need you looking out for me.”

Surprised by the coolness of Tom’s tone and the willful glare in his eyes, it took Booker a moment to realize the young officer had completely misunderstood the intent behind his question. His expression immediately softened, and he offered an apologetic smile. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it,” Tom replied crossly, his lower lip pushing into a sullen pout. “I know what you meant. You think you’re stronger than me.”

Annoyed at Tom’s constantly changing temperament, Booker rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he scoffed with a snort. “Face it, Hanson, I _am_ stronger than you, and the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can quit whining about it.”

Not about to let the pain in his damaged ribs prevent him from defending his pride, Tom shot out of bed and assuming a fighting stance, he raised his fists in readiness for battle. “COME ON!” he yelled, his eyes blazing fiercely. “I’ll take you down right now, you sonofabitch! Let’s Go!”

A lascivious grin split Booker’s mouth, and his dark eyes flashed with a hungry desire. With slow precision, his tongue traced a salacious trail over his full lips as his eyes devoured Tom’s slender, naked body. For the longest of moments, his gaze lingered over Hanson’s cock. The impressive appendage lay nestled in a thatch of dark pubic hair, and a low moan exhaled unchecked from between his lips. He longed to take the smooth, plum-shaped head into his mouth and taste its sweetness, to coax the long, thick shaft to hardness with his skilled tongue. His excitement quickly escalated and unashamed, his eyes moved slowly downwards. Tom’s testicles swung freely between his open legs, the sight drawing in his gaze and he marveled at their perfection. A delightful shiver of longing ran down his spine, further lengthening his cock before his erection had even had a chance to abate. The erotic sight standing before him rendered him mute and immobile, and he continued to stare with greedy, licentious eyes at the reality of what was once his secret fantasy.

If he died tomorrow, he knew he would die a happy man.

Disconcerted by Booker’s expression, Tom’s brow drew into a confused frown before realization dawned and with a yelp, he cupped both hands over his exposed genitals. Embarrassment heated his face, flaming his cheeks a bright shade of amber, and he cursed his misfortune. Once again, he had made a fool of himself in front of Booker and once again, his pride lay in tatters. It was becoming an unwelcome habit, and he ruefully wondered why the universe had decided to make him the butt of its jokes.

Inching backward, he grabbed his comforter off the bed and quickly draped it around his naked body, covering his nakedness. Still feeling vulnerable, he sat down on the mattress and wrapped his arms protectively around him, securing the duvet in place. His ribs ached from the sudden burst of activity and his eyes settled on the packet of Advil on his bedside table. But he was too afraid to move in case he accidentally exposed himself again. Therefore, he sat with his eyes downcast and waited for the pain in his side to ease… or for Booker to leave, whichever came first.

Mentally cursing himself for his wanton behavior, Booker climbed from his bed and moving across the room, he squatted down and placed a hand on Tom’s knee. “Sorry.”

Tom lifted his head and gazed into Booker’s coal-black eyes. “The universe hates me,” he lamented with a sigh.

Booker managed to suppress a smile, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. “Maybe not. Maybe the universe is just rewarding _me._ ”

It was not the response Tom had expected, and his lips twitched into a grin. “Asshole,” he chuckled lightly. “I hope you enjoyed the show ‘cause it’s the last one you’ll ever get to see.”

“Spoilsport,” Booker pouted, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

Now his embarrassment was starting to ease, Tom could see the funny side of the situation and his grin widened. “Penhall’s gonna get such a kick out of this.”

Getting to his feet, Booker grabbed his toiletries and threw his towel over his shoulder. “Maybe it can be our little secret,” he replied softly, a hopeful glimmer brightening his soft brown eyes.

Tom had the uncomfortable feeling Booker wanted the embarrassing scenario kept under wraps because he yearned to have an anecdote that was theirs and theirs alone. It was obvious Dennis was jealous of his relationship with Penhall; he and Doug shared a unique bond that many envied. Theirs was a brotherly love that extended much further than friendship; it was a _lay down your life_ devotion rarely seen between two colleagues. They adored each other and Tom knew he would never have another friendship like the one he shared with Doug. It was a once in a lifetime bond, and he felt immensely grateful he had been lucky enough to find what many would describe as his soul mate.

But then there was Booker. While _their_ relationship was slowly developing into something resembling a friendship, the dark-haired officer’s obvious infatuation with him made their bond an awkward one. He had no qualms about hugging Doug or offering him a tender caress when he was feeling down. Whereas with Dennis, he was self-conscious about showing any affection because he did not want to lead him on any more than he already had. He vividly recalled the startled look on Booker's face when he had inadvertently flirted with him, and he did not want to make the same mistake again. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the strange, unexplained emotions he felt when Booker touched him. The flip-flopping sensation in his stomach and the tightening of his testicles were all signs of sexual arousal, but he was too confused and embarrassed to admit it to himself and therefore, he tried not to think about it. Although Booker still made him nervous, he felt inexplicably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame and he could not help but ask himself if, like the insect, the attraction would ultimately lead to his demise.

The intensity of Booker's gaze pulled him back to the present, and pushing aside all the unsettling thoughts swirling in his mind, he offered a tentative smile. “Deal.”

But when Booker grinned back, a shiver of foreboding tingled his spine, and he began to wonder if he was making a huge mistake.

**

**Three hours later**

The mood in the Pi Tau house was a mixture of eager anticipation and uncertainty. The seven pledges stood patiently in line in the basement waiting for Michael McCarter to give them their directive. Hanson's demeanor was guarded; he felt less than ready to face whatever barbaric ritual the pledge master had in mind. Although he had taken a couple of Advil before leaving the dorm, the dull throbbing in his ribs was a testament to the extent of his injury. But he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it, especially after the fiasco of his nude battle dance. The physical symptoms of his humiliation were still very much evident; the bilious churning in the pit of his stomach coupled with flashes of heat when he imagined how ridiculous he must have looked with his genitalia swinging freely in the breeze. The embarrassing memory made him cringe, and his heart fell out of rhythm and fluttered against his chest. It was a humbling lesson, and he vowed never to lose his temper with Booker again without first making sure he was fully dressed.

McCarter’s loud, imposing voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned his attention to the pledge master.

“Today’s activity requires physical strength,” the Pi Tau instructed, his cruel gaze blatantly eyeing Harold Horshack up and down, causing the smaller man to cower visibly under the scrutiny. “Each pledge will complete one hundred push-ups. If you don’t complete the task, you move on to the next phase.”

Booker cast a furtive glance at Tom. Under normal circumstances, he would not have entertained the idea of interfering. But it was obvious his friend was suffering in silence, and he felt it was his duty to say something, even if it meant being on the receiving end of a bucket-load of wrath. There was no way Tom could complete the challenge, and he could not face the idea of him competing in what was likely to be an even more sadistic trial. Therefore, he pushed aside the nagging thought that he was somehow betraying his friend and clearing his throat, he spoke up. “Er, Harris has an injury.”

Tom’s head whipped to the side and clenching his hands into tight fists, he glared angrily at Booker. “Shut the hell up,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I told you, I’m fine.”

The muscles in McCarter’s jaw jumped, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, before his expression became chillingly neutral. “Is this true, Harris?” he asked in a flat, emotionless voice.

With eyes blazing, Tom glared back defiantly. “It’s just a couple of bruised ribs. I’m okay.”

Arching his eyebrows skeptically, McCarter studied Tom’s insolent expression. “Lift your shirt,” he commanded softly.

Humiliation flamed Tom’s cheeks, but he stubbornly stood his ground, his gaze unfaltering. “I... said… I’m... o- _kay,”_ he reiterated in a slow, precise voice, laying heavy emphasis on the final word.

For several long moments, McCarter rubbed his chin in contemplation. Then, without warning, he jabbed his fingers into Hanson’s ribs.

An anguished cry sounded from between Tom’s lips and he doubled over in pain, hot tears filling his eyes. “Sonofa _bitch!”_ he spat angrily. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Amusement sparkled in McCarter’s eyes. “Because I can,” and ignoring Tom’s furious look, he turned away and strode pretentiously up and down the line of pledges. “Harris will sit this one out, the rest of you, drop to the floor. You’ll start on my count.”

All six pledges voiced groans of displeasure, but they followed the command without argument and got themselves into position. McCarter smirked annoyingly at Tom—who stood silently with an arm wrapped protectively around his aching ribs—and proceeded to count in a loud, clear voice. “One… two… three…”

Booker and four of the pledges had no trouble falling into a steady rhythm, and they easily kept up with McCarter’s rapidly barked tally. But Horshack floundered from the start, his puny arms incapable of holding the weight of his slender frame. After only five push-ups, rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead, slipping behind his thick glasses and stinging his eyes. His breath wheezed from his lungs with each painfully labored pant, the rasping hiss filling the room. A minute passed, and he was already dozens of push-ups behind the other pledges. He tried valiantly to catch up, but pain constricted his chest, further inhibiting his breathing, and it was then he knew he was, in the words of the Beatnik poets, royally screwed.

A hand suddenly came out of nowhere and plucked his glasses from his face, instantly rendering him blind. “Hey!” he gasped, his sightless eyes squinting up at McCarter’s shadowy form. “Give ‘em back! I can’t see!”

McCarter’s loud, cruel laugh cut through the grunts of exertion echoing through the room. “Your specs were steaming up _Horseshit_. I was doin’ you a favor.” 

But as he turned to walk away, a cold hand grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip, painfully grinding the bones.

“Give him back his glasses.”

Whipping around, McCarter glared into Tom’s furious face. “And who’s gonna make me, Harris? _You?”_ the pledge master snorted.

A small, knowing smile played over Tom’s lips, but his eyes remained cold. “That’s right, asshole,” he murmured softly, his grasp tightening. “You might think you’re the big man on campus, but I’m telling you now, you _really_ don’t wanna mess with me. Got it?”

A look of uncertainty flashed briefly across McCarter’s face, and his left eye twitched nervously. But he quickly regained his composure and snatching his arm free, he laughed, albeit a little too loudly. “Did you and your buddy Brody go to the same school of wannabe heroes, Harris?” he mocked, his lips drawn back in a predatory grin. 

“Nope,” Tom replied pleasantly. “We just don’t take shit from small-dicked motherfuckers like you.”

All six pledges had paused to watch the scene unfold, and a collective gasp cut through the air at the audacity of Tom's insult. Booker started to rise, but McCarter stamped a foot into the small of his back, forcing him back to the floor. The minor assault was enough for Tom to react and with no regard for his own physical safety, he drew back his fist and took a swing, his knuckles connecting with McCarter’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

The pledge master’s head whipped forcibly to the right, a rush of air expelling from between his lips with a loud _oomph._ The impact of the blow sent him reeling backward, and he collided with the workbench, his flailing arms knocking over the utensil holder. Knives, forks, and spoons flew across the wooden bench with such force, several clattered to the cement floor. The stainless steel tableware lay glinting under the harsh fluorescent lighting, their ability to cause discomfort now just a distant memory. Several pledges sat up, ready to take flight if an all-out brawl ensued. But Horshack remained paralyzed, his body quivering in fear. He had no idea what had happened, but he was astute enough to pick up the vibe and the vibe told him that a whole load of shit was about to hit the fan.

Shocked by the sudden turn of events, Booker was on his feet in seconds, ready to back Tom up. The four other pledges remained motionless, the push-ups forgotten, their wide eyes filled with a mixture of fear and curious fascination. The drama unfolding before their eyes was much more interesting than the hazing ritual, and they all waited with bated breath to see what would happen.

Determined to hold on to the last thread of his dignity, McCarter stood tall, his shoulders squared in defiance, his expression stoic. “I’ll see you all here at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning,” he stated flatly, and without meeting any of the pledges puzzled gazes, he strode purposely up the stairs and into the main house.

**

Flames lapped greedily at the neatly stacked kindling in the hearth of the fraternity's common room, the burning wood crackling and spitting as the fire took hold. Tongues of orange flame licked at the wood, radiating warmth across the dimly lit room, the hypnotic flickering casting abstract shadows over the wood-paneled walls lined with photos of Pi Tau alumni. Todd Stevenson stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. He silently studied the bruise on McCarter’s chin, his lips pressed in a contemplative pucker. Long, drawn out seconds turned into minutes before he finally spoke, his voice cool and emotionless. “You’re telling me _Harris_ did this to you?”

Shame flushed McCarter’s cheeks and rubbing a tentative hand over his swollen jaw, he struggled to control the animosity that writhed deep within his gut. “Sonofabitch caught me off guard,” he growled. “It won’t happen again… trust me.”

A slight nod of the head was the only sign Stevenson gave that he had heard McCarter’s vow. But the pledge master was not about to let the matter drop. He’d had enough of Brody and Harris interfering with the hazing ritual, and he was determined to get his revenge. But to do so, he needed his Pi Tau brother’s approval and stepping forward, he stared intensely at his friend, an evil glint in his ice-blue eyes. “I wanna nominate Harris and Brody for the final test. Any objections?”

Todd’s gaze turned to the largest portrait in the room; that of Pi Tau’s founding father, Alexander Powell. “You still have another two days to put them through their paces,” he remarked softly. “Initiation isn’t until Friday; are you sure you want to make such an important decision now?”

“I’m sure,” McCarter stated through clenched teeth. “Those bitches are gonna wish they’d kept their fat mouths shut.”

A sadistic smile briefly crinkled the corners of Todd’s eyes. “I’ll inform the brothers.”

McCarter’s lips pulled back into an evil grin. Brody and Harris may have thought they had the upper hand, but ultimately, he would have the last laugh.


	9. More than a Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This is not exactly how I expected this chapter to go. However, _the boys_ spoke rather assertively in my ear, telling me what to write and so I abandoned my original plan and went with theirs. After all, it is their story ;)**
> 
> **In Peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Flames lapped greedily at the neatly stacked kindling in the hearth of the fraternity's common room, the burning wood crackling and spitting as the fire took hold. Tongues of orange flame licked at the wood, radiating warmth across the dimly lit room, the hypnotic flickering casting abstract shadows over the wood-paneled walls lined with photos of Pi Tau alumni. Todd Stevenson stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. He silently studied the bruise on McCarter’s chin, his lips pressed in a contemplative pucker. Long, drawn out seconds turned into minutes before he finally spoke, his voice cool and emotionless. “You’re telling me Harris did this to you?”_
> 
> _Shame flushed McCarter’s cheeks and rubbing a tentative hand over his swollen jaw, he struggled to control the animosity that writhed deep within his gut. “Sonofabitch caught me off guard,” he growled. “It won’t happen again… trust me.”_
> 
> _A slight nod of the head was the only sign Stevenson gave that he had heard McCarter’s vow. But the pledge master was not about to let the matter drop. He’d had enough of Brody and Harris interfering with the hazing ritual, and he was determined to get his revenge. But to do so, he needed his Pi Tau brother’s approval and stepping forward, he stared intensely at his friend, an evil glint in his ice-blue eyes. “I wanna nominate Harris and Brody for the final test. Any objections?”_
> 
> _Todd’s gaze turned to the largest portrait in the room; that of Pi Tau’s founding father, Alexander Powell. “You still have another two days to put them through their paces,” he remarked softly. “Initiation isn’t until Friday; are you sure you want to make such an important decision now?”_
> 
> _“I’m sure,” McCarter stated through clenched teeth. “Those bitches are gonna wish they’d kept their fat mouths shut.”_
> 
> _A sadistic smile briefly crinkled the corners of Todd’s eyes. “I’ll inform the brothers.”_
> 
> _McCarter’s lips pulled back into an evil grin. Brody and Harris may have thought they had the upper hand, but ultimately, he would have the last laugh._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35159482013/in/dateposted-public/)

Back in the privacy of their dorm room, Booker could no longer contain his anger, and his voice exploded, cutting through the silence in the room. “Damn it, Hanson! What the _FUCK_ were you thinking? You could have blown our cover! How the _HELL_ does hitting McCarter help us with our case? He gave you a pass ‘cause of your injuries and now he’s probably as suspicious as hell, and we have _NOTHING!”_

Angry with himself for losing his temper, Tom took his frustration out on Booker. “I DON’T KNOW WHY I DID IT!” he yelled back, his hands gesturing wildly in front of him. “HE PISSED ME OFF, _OKAY?_ I’M TIRED OF HIM PICKING ON HAROLD, I’M TIRED OF BEING IN PAIN AND I’M FUCKING TIRED OF YOU AND YOUR SICK OBSESSION WITH ME!”

The cruel words cut through Booker’s heart as effectively as a knife, but his pain quickly transformed into a blinding anger and raising his hand, he struck Tom across the face with a resounding slap.

Stunned by the assault, Tom stood with his mouth gaping open, the stinging burn radiating down his cheek reflected in the look of hurt in his eyes. When Booker took a step toward him, he anticipated a second attack, and he staggered backward, his fists raised in readiness. But he misjudged his retreat and the backs of his legs collided with his bed, sending him toppling onto the mattress. Pain flared in his side, but he ignored it and clutching his ribs, he scrambled off the bed and confronted Booker, his face a mask of fury. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

“ _My_ problem?” Booker spat back, his dark eyes flashing indignantly. “ _You’re_ the one with the problem.”

Silence once again reigned supreme; even the house sparrows nesting in the tree outside the window appeared to pick up on the tension in the room, and their voices fell silent. Dust motes glittered in the bars of light shining through the blinds, adding to the heaviness in the air as both men continued to glare at each other, their chests heaving with anger. With testosterone and arrogance fueling a childish desire to prove who was right, neither man wanted to be the first to back down, and so their standoff continued for several long minutes.

Eventually, weariness and disillusionment took their toll on Booker and turning away, he picked up his holdall. Pushing past Tom, he started grabbing up armfuls of clothing that lay littered around the room, and without bothering to check if the clothes were his or Tom’s, he carelessly shoved them into the bag. His furious actions were a testament to his bad mood, and most of the clothing ended up screwed into a ball. But his need to escape began to overwhelm him, and his immediate focus was to put some distance between himself and Tom so he could get his head straightened out. Being in such close quarters with the man he loved was proving to be a challenge, and he was seriously considering asking Fuller for a transfer. He had thought he was making inroads in his relationship with Tom, but he now realized he was wrong. When they were together, his feelings for the young officer would always be the elephant in the room, and he was not sure if he could continue to subject himself to the humiliation of rejection. He was tired of it, and although his feelings remained strong, he was growing tired of Tom and his unpredictable mood swings.

Puzzled by the flurry of activity, Tom finally found his voice. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Booker muttered without looking up. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Tom parroted, his eyebrows drawing into a frown. “Why?”

Spinning around, Booker angrily threw his bag to the floor. “Why the _fuck_ do you think?” he spat. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

Tom’s stared back in confusion. “Do what? Dennis, I don’t under—”

“THIS!” Booker yelled, his hands waving madly above his head. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, HANSON, HOW FUCKING STUPID ARE YOU?”

Tom’s expression immediately soured. “Pretty fucking stupid, obviously,” he replied through gritted teeth. “So why don’t you spell it out so an idiot like me can understand.”

Hurt suddenly replaced the hostility in Booker’s eyes, and his shoulders visibly sagged. “You call it a sick obsession,” he muttered, a hint of sadness echoing in his voice. “But it’s not. I can’t help the way I feel about you, Tommy… I’m in love with you.”

The heartfelt statement touched Tom more than he would have ever thought possible, and his anger instantly melted away. He knew he should respond, but he did not know what to say without sounding patronizing, and so he foolishly remained silent, his thumb rubbing nervously at the corner of his jaw.

Embarrassed by Tom’s lack of reaction to his declaration, Booker exhaled a heavy sigh, and bending down, he picked up his bag. “I’ll ring Fuller, tell him I fucked up and they kicked me out and that way, you can continue with the assignment. Then I’ll ask for a transfer to another department.”

Shocked by Dennis’ plan, Tom stepped forward and grabbed him by the arm. “That’s not what I want,” he confessed in a rush of words, concern shining brightly in his dark eyes.

The warmth of Tom's touch penetrated through Booker’s flesh, sparking a fire in his soul and igniting the torch within. His heart fluttered against his chest, sending ripples of desire down the length of his spine. Every fiber of his being told him he should keep his mouth shut, exit the room and never see Tom again. But he had always been a rebel, and he rarely listened to his inner voice of reason. Therefore, he took the plunge into unknown waters and gazing deep into Tom’s eyes, he spoke in a soft, breathless voice. “What _do_ you want?”

For a fraction of a moment, the room appeared to disappear and all Tom could see was the depth of longing shining from Booker’s eyes. He licked his lips nervously, his emotions spiraling toward an unknown abyss. Kaleidoscopic patterns flickered before his eyes, the intensity of color temporarily blinding him. His breathing became shallow, and a hot flash of nausea engulfed him, churning his stomach. Perspiration prickled his top lip, but his skin felt cold and swaying unsteadily on his feet, he staggered backward. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he felt like he was going to faint, and he fought to remain upright as an inky blackness threatened to consume him.

“Tom?”

The sound of his name pulled Tom back to reality, and focusing his eyes, he saw Booker staring at him, the young officer’s face strained with worry. He swallowed several times in quick succession, the action working some much-needed saliva into his dry mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling thick and heavy. “I don’t know what just happened.”

A knowing look passed over Booker’s face. “I think you just had a panic attack.”

“Huh?” Tom muttered, the buzzing in his head making it difficult for him to concentrate.

Taking hold of Tom’s upper arm, Booker led him over to the bed. “Sit,” he instructed softly.

Grateful for the chance to take his weight off his trembling legs, Tom dropped to the mattress. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Shit,” he mumbled against his clammy palms.

Booker hesitated for a moment before sitting down and resting a light hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Tommy, um, do you… I mean… I don’t s’pose you’re starting to feel differently about me, are you?”

Tom’s body stiffened and lowering his hands, he turned his head and peered up at Booker through his unruly bangs. “What are you talking about?”

Chewing anxiously on his lower lip, Booker tried to keep his voice level, but on the inside, he was a jumble of nerves. “I dunno, it’s just… when I asked you what you wanted, there was this flash of longing in your eyes and… well, maybe I misread it, but it kinda looked like you—”

“Looked like I _what?”_ Tom interrupted softly, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest. Although he was scared to hear the answer, he felt an almost desperate need to understand what telltale emotion had risen from his soul and shimmered in his eyes.

Lowering his head, Booker fidgeted uncomfortably before crossing his arms across his chest, the gesture creating an unconscious barrier, protecting him from the rejection he felt certain he was about to suffer. “Like you had feelings for me,” he mumbled into his chest.

And there it was… the elephant in the room had lifted its trunk, trumpeted out the truth and stampeded across the floor, knocking the wind from Tom’s lungs. The young officer sat with his mouth gaping open, not because he found the statement incredulous, but because he knew, in part, that it was true. His feelings for Booker _had_ changed, but he was not exactly sure what that meant. The weird, topsy-turvy sensation in his stomach when Dennis touched him was a new experience. He had never even felt the same level of intensity from a woman’s gentle caress, and although the encounters were somewhat disconcerting, they were also strangely comforting.

As Booker continued to stare at the floor, Tom struggled to articulate what he felt inside. “You’re right, my feelings for you _have_ changed,” he admitted softly, his gaze focusing on the same spot on the worn linoleum as Dennis’ morose stare. “The problem is, I don't know what that means.” 

The quiet confession raised goosebumps on Booker’s arms, and lifting his gaze, he focused on Tom’s profile. “Do you want me to leave?”

Without hesitation, Tom shook his head, although his eyes remained firmly fixed on the floor. “No.”

Feeling bold, Booker reached out a hand and gently touched the red mark on Tom's cheek. “Sorry,” he murmured, the regret in his heart weighing heavy in his voice. “That was a shitty thing to do.”

Turning his head, Tom shrugged his shoulders and offered a small but genuine smile. “I deserved it. But I didn’t mean what I said. I guess I’m just feeling a little vulnerable at the moment.”

“That’s understandable,” Booker responded graciously, “but I’ve got your back, you know that, right?”

With a heavy sigh, Tom nodded. “Yeah, I know… and thanks.”

Not wanting to ruin the moment by saying the wrong thing, Booker stood up. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

Surprised that Booker would find walking therapeutic exercise, Tom only just managed to bite back a blunt repartee about muscle-bound gym junkies. Instead, he lay down on his bed and picked up the crime novel he’d been reading. “Okay.”

Disappointed Tom had not offered to join him, Booker grabbed his jacket and walked out the room.

**

When Booker returned two hours later, he found Tom fast asleep, his book still clutched in his right hand. Silently closing the door, he moved stealthily across the room and sat down on the edge of his own bed. His eyes traveled up the length of Tom’s body before resting on his tranquil face. Even in sleep, Tom had the penchant to pout, and the perfect pink bow of his lips drew Booker in, tempting him with their fullness. Unashamed, his gaze slowly traveled upward. A curtain of hair veiled Tom’s left eye, but his right remained visible, and Booker marveled at the full, thick lashes caressing the young officer’s cheek. A serene aura radiated from within, relaxing Tom’s features in slumber and creating an almost boyish appearance. It was an expression of innocence he often lacked during his waking hours and Booker stared in wonderment at his vulnerability. Tom could be very intense, especially at work, and because he had never had the chance to socialize with him out of hours, Booker was not acquainted with the younger man’s more playful side. But now, as his eyes greedily fed on the intoxicating beauty of Hanson’s features, he stored each tantalizing vision in his mind for future reference. Nothing heightened his sexual arousal more than fantasizing about Tom when he was teasing his early morning erection to life. A little voice inside his head whispered that he was a pervert, but a louder voice always chimed in telling him it was all just innocent fun, and everybody did it. However, despite the reassurance, he could not help but feel a certain amount of guilt, and he wondered what Tom would think if he ever found out. But he also felt a certain amount of hope after Tom’s rather cryptic confession. Maybe the young officer _was_ having a change of heart and maybe, just maybe, he might know what it was like to have Tom Hanson in his life.

A heavy sigh expelled from between his lips and falling back onto the mattress, he stared up at the ceiling with blank, expressionless eyes. His mind played over Tom’s non-committal statement, _“The problem is, I don't know what that means,”_ and his heart pitter-pattered with longing. He had no idea what the words meant, but what he _did_ know was he wanted more from Tom than just friendship, and he would not be satisfied until he had achieved his ultimate dream.


	10. Welcome to Your Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **My apologies for the time it has taken me to post this chapter. Real life has reared its ugly head :)**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: When Booker returned two hours later, he found Tom fast asleep, his book still clutched in his right hand. Silently closing the door, he moved stealthily across the room and sat down on the edge of his own bed. His eyes traveled up the length of Tom’s body before resting on his tranquil face. Even in sleep, Tom had the penchant to pout, and the perfect pink bow of his lips drew Booker in, tempting him with their fullness. Unashamed, his gaze slowly traveled upward. A curtain of hair veiled Tom’s left eye, but his right remained visible, and Booker marveled at the full, thick lashes caressing the young officer’s cheek. A serene aura radiated from within, relaxing Tom’s features in slumber and creating an almost boyish appearance. It was an expression of innocence he often lacked during his waking hours and Booker stared in wonderment at his vulnerability. Tom could be very intense, especially at work, and because he had never had the chance to socialize with him out of hours, Booker was not acquainted with the younger man’s more playful side. But now, as his eyes greedily fed on the intoxicating beauty of Hanson’s features, he stored each tantalizing vision in his mind for future reference. Nothing heightened his sexual arousal more than fantasizing about Tom when he was teasing his early morning erection to life. A little voice inside his head whispered that he was a pervert, but a louder voice always chimed in telling him it was all just innocent fun, and everybody did it. However, despite the reassurance, he could not help but feel a certain amount of guilt, and he wondered what Tom would think if he ever found out. But he also felt a certain amount of hope after Tom’s rather cryptic confession. Maybe the young officer was having a change of heart and maybe, just maybe, he might know what it was like to have Tom Hanson in his life._
> 
> _A heavy sigh expelled from between his lips and falling back onto the mattress, he stared up at the ceiling with blank, expressionless eyes. His mind played over Tom’s non-committal statement, “The problem is, I don't know what that means,” and his heart pitter-pattered with longing. He had no idea what the words meant, but what he did know was he wanted more from Tom than just friendship, and he would not be satisfied until he had achieved his ultimate dream._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35159492953/in/dateposted-public/)

After their heart-to-heart talk three days earlier, Tom and Dennis’ budding friendship was once again showing signs of strain. For Tom, the tension was twofold. Firstly, knowing how deep Booker’s feelings were for him, he did not want to lead the young officer on by behaving too friendly. Secondly—and most disturbingly—he was struggling to understand the complexity of his _own_ feelings. Although he did not know why, Booker had awakened something inside him, something he had not felt for a very long time… full-blown infatuation. 

He had desperately tried to push the unwanted thoughts to the deepest recesses of his mind, but his feelings were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, and there was no denying the obvious; every aspect of Dennis Booker intrigued him. It would not have been a bad thing, except he had never met a male who had the ability to beguile him, and the whole experience was extremely unsettling. Much to his dismay, he found himself frequently questioning the depth of his feelings, all of which cast serious doubt on the validity of his heterosexuality, and he could not help but wonder if his initial hostility toward Booker was because unbeknownst to him, he had felt an attraction to the charismatic officer all along. But that was not a conversation he relished having with himself, and so he did what he needed to do to preserve his sanity, he withdrew from the man whose coal-black eyes sent technicolor fireworks firing through his heart and focused his mind on their case… alone.

Therefore, as he stood in the basement of the fraternity house waiting to see what humiliating, ritualistic activity McCarter had in mind for their final challenge, he purposely ignored Dennis’ penetrative gaze and instead cast a furtive glance at the Pi Tau brothers lining the walls. To his and Dennis' amazement, the Pledge Master had paid them very little attention during the final two days of hazing. More surprisingly, he had also moved away from humiliating Horshack, much to the frail pledge’s relief. Instead, the callous senior had focused most of his efforts on the remaining pledges, the four strapping young men who up until then had pretty much flown under the radar. He had put them through vigorous and often painful activities, all of which they had conquered with little or no trouble. 

They were, after all, the best of the best.

But that was the past. All the blood, sweat and tears they had shed during the last week had led toward one final goal; surviving the grand finale. A shiver of foreboding ran down Tom’s spine. They had one last activity to endure, and if they succeeded, they would become fully fledged Pi Tau brothers. However, unless the final hazing ritual included an exercise that risked a pledge’s life or well-being, the case was a bust. Even though some of the activities during Hell Week had been brutal, they were nothing more heinous than _boys just being boys._ Neither he nor Booker had witnessed any significant abuses or negligence, and he was beginning to wonder if those who had failed to make the cut had grossly exaggerated their witness accounts. After all, resentment provided a strong motivation to lie.

When Michael McCarter, Todd Stevenson, and an unknown Pi Tau brother stepped forward, the latter holding a camcorder, Tom returned his thoughts to the present. Stevenson spoke first, his voice pleasant and inviting. “Welcome to the final day of Hell Week, gentlemen. You are one task away from becoming members of the most elite fraternity on campus. Congratulations on making it this far.”

Suppressing a smirk, Booker glanced at Tom, but when the younger officer kept his eyes focused straight ahead, a sigh of annoyance expelled from between his lips. He did not understand Hanson’s detachment; he had thought after their forthright conversation that their relationship would start to develop into something more gratifying. However, he had found himself sadly mistaken. Tom only spoke to him when he deemed it necessary, preferring to spend the majority of his time in the college’s expansive library, rather than in their room with him. It was disheartening and exacerbating, but so far, he had managed to suppress the urge to pester his friend for an explanation. Tom was a deep thinker, and if he needed time to process his feelings, then Booker was willing to give him some space… at least for the moment.

Michael McCarter placed a companionable hand on Todd’s shoulder and smiled his predatory smile. “Thank you, Todd. Now, for the main event.” 

Leaving Todd’s side, he walked leisurely past the line of pledges, eyeing each young man with his cold blue eyes. “As you can see, Hawkins is holding a camcorder. We video every final initiation and the tape is then handed over to our Keymaster, a trusted Pi Tau alumnus.”

With a nervous _ahem,_ Horshack raised a hand and asked the obvious question. “Why?”

Turning around, McCarter slowly moved back down the line until he was standing in front of Harold. “The reason, _Horseshit,_ is because we use the tape as a type of insurance. Our rituals are secret; they date back to the eighteen-eighties and what happens in this basement, stays in this basement. Hawkins will video everything that takes place, proving that each and every one of you participated. If, for any reason, one of you decides to make a complaint, the Keymaster has the evidence that would implicate the informant and all the other pledges.”

When Horshack stared back blankly, he gave a hollow laugh. “Let’s just say, you _won’t_ want this video made public.”

Tom glanced furtively at Booker, his eyebrow raised in a _this is it_ look. They had waited nearly a week and endured countless degradations, but it would all be worth it if they could _finally_ bust the fraternity engaging in illicit activities. Booker’s lips twitched in acknowledgment. He too was keen to arrest the smug Pledge Master, he’d had enough of all the bullshit, and he hoped their evidence would be sufficient enough to shut the Pi Tau fraternity down permanently.

Unaware that two undercover officers were standing just feet away from him, McCarter grinned, his perfect white teeth reminding Tom of a hungry shark. “Strip down to tee shirts and shorts, gentlemen.”

Loud groans echoed throughout the room, but when Jason Hawkins switched on the hand-held camcorder and started recording, the men grew silent. As they slowly began to undress, their faces became anxious, the uncertainty of what lay ahead adding to their apprehension. They were blindly walking into the unknown and with the whole of the Pi Tau fraternity watching on, there was no turning back… not now, not ever. They had come too far to walk away, and now, as they stood in tee shirts and shorts, they knew they would do whatever McCarter asked of them because they coveted what was unattainable to so many; they wanted the elitism of being a Pi Tau.

Casting a satisfied eye over the partially dressed pledges, McCarter strolled slowly past each student before stopping in front of Tom. “How are your ribs, Harris?” he asked in a soft, concerned voice.

More than a little surprised that McCarter cared enough to ask, Tom found himself smiling back. “They’re okay.”

A glint of perverse pleasure flashed momentarily in McCarter’s eyes, but he quickly replaced the expression with a deadpan look. The last five days had led to this precise moment, and he could not have asked for a more perfect specimen than Tom. Not only was he beautiful, he had also been a thorn in his side since the first day, and he longed to exact revenge. No one disparaged a Pledge Master, especially not some pretty-boy junior like Harris and his _oh-so-tough_ sidekick Brody. But the tables would soon be turned, and he could not wait to take both men down a peg or two. Once the ritual was over, they would understand that they were nothing but worthless scum beneath his feet.

Not wanting to waste any more precious time, McCarter’s attitude became business-like. “Excellent. Now, it’s time for the games to begin. Please hold out your hands, Harris.”

Although not keen to submit, Tom played along, and he held his hands out in front of him, his palms facing dutifully upward.

A Pi Tau brother stepped forward and took hold of Tom’s fingers, holding them firmly in his grasp and before the young officer could react, McCarter snapped a set of handcuffs over his wrists.

“Hey!” Tom exclaimed, and pulling his hands free from the Pi Tau brother’s hold, he struggled against the restraints. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Relax,” McCarter cooed, his piercing blue eyes dancing with excitement. “You're very lucky, _Tommy,_ you're the chosen one.”

Tom's blood ran cold, chilling his bones and sending a shiver of foreboding down his spine. He glanced at Booker, his expression anxious and he received a concerned look in return. But they both knew if they were to do their jobs effectively, they needed to remain calm and let the scenario play out. If they acted too hastily, they ran the risk of blowing their case, and they had come too far to walk away empty-handed.

Unable to disguise his mounting panic, Tom chewed nervously on his lower lip. He had a feeling the hazing ritual was about to escalate into something neither he nor Booker had bargained for, and he was beginning to fear for his safety.

Glancing anxiously around the room at the Pi Tau brothers’ stony expressions, his lips stretched into a tense smile, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to disguise the tremble in his voice. “Chosen for what?” 

McCarter’s mask dropped and any pretense of concern he had shown vanished into the ether. His top lip twitched into a derisive sneer, and grabbing hold of the chain linking the two cuffs, he pulled Tom forcefully forward, so their faces were just inches apart. His warm breath tickled Tom’s cheek and the young officer instinctively jerked away in disgust. But there was no escaping the maniacal glare that radiated from his ice-blue eyes when he explained his intentions to the trembling undercover cop. “It’s really very simple, _Tommy._ You’re the toy, and the rest of us get to play with you.”

Having heard enough, Booker stepped forward with a growl. “That’s it, McCarter, you’ve had your fun. Let him go or—”

Out of nowhere, a gun appeared, held in the steady hands of Todd Stevenson. The Pi Tau pointed it at the back of Tom’s head, a smug smirk playing over his lips. “Or _what?”_ he asked calmly.

A collective gasp sounded throughout the basement, and each of the pledges took a step backward. Unable to see the gun, Tom struggled to release himself from McCarter’s hold, but immediately, two Pi Tau’s stepped forward and wrenching his arms above his head, they lifted him with ease and hooked the links of his handcuffs over a large metal hook that hung from the ceiling. Now that he was hanging suspended, with his toes barely touching the cement floor, full-blown panic set in and he started to fight against his restraints. “Dennis, help me!” he cried out, the timbre of his voice reflecting his fear.

Stevenson waggled the gun playfully behind Tom’s head, his eyes flashing with amusement. “Yeah, _Dennis._ What’s wrong with you? Why _won’t_ you help him?”

Booker ran a shaky hand across his mouth as he tried to assess the situation. He had no doubt McCarter and Stevenson were crazy, and any wrong move could end in catastrophe. But he needed to do _something_ before the situation got completely out of hand and he hedged his bet on Stevenson, who seemed slightly _less_ nuts than McCarter.

Stepping forward, he plastered a fake smile on his face. “Hey,” he murmured softly, his eyes engaging Stevenson’s wild gaze. “Let’s not do anything stupid.”

Dozens of eyes focused on the four men, and when Stevenson spoke, their attention remained riveted. “That’s some good advice, Brody. Now, unless you want things to get bloody, you’re gonna do _exactly_ what your Pledge Master tells you to do. Understood?”

Tom’s eyes frantically flitted around the room, searching for an ally before settling back on Booker. “Dennis?” he squeaked, his mind unable to believe that the dark-haired officer was still procrastinating instead of taking action and bringing a swift halt to the hazing. “Tell ‘em, Dennis! Tell ‘em who we are!”

Booker’s face reddened, but his gaze remained firmly on the gun pointed at the back of Tom’s head. He felt completely powerless in the face of Tom’s adversity, but he knew he had no choice. If he attacked either McCarter or Stevenson, he ran the risk of the gun discharging in the scuffle. Also, he had no idea if any of the other Pi Tau’s had armed themselves, and therefore, he decided not to take the chance and reveal who they were. If he miscalculated and the fraternity members became spooked, it could turn into a bloodbath.

Swallowing deeply, he turned his gaze to Hanson. “I’m sorry, Tommy,” he whispered.

Fear widened Tom’s eyes. “Dennis,” he pleaded softly. “Please—”

“Enough talking!” McCarter interjected, his voice ringing with excitement. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He walked over to Booker and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re up first, tough guy.”

Resisting the urge to punch McCarter in the face, Booker curled his hands into tight, angry fists. “And what _exactly_ do you want me to do?” he asked in a terse voice.

McCarter’s grin widened. “I _really_ think you’re gonna enjoy this, Brody,” he chuckled. “What I _want_ you to do is drop to your knees, pull down Harris’ shorts and suck his dick.”

For a moment, Booker thought he had misheard, but when he saw the terror in Tom’s eyes, he knew he was not mistaken. “W-What?” he stammered, his bewilderment apparent by the startled look on his face.

Trailing his tongue salaciously over his lips, McCarter’s eyes shone brightly. “You heard me. Drop to your knees, pull down his shorts and suck... his... dick.”

With no idea how to get out of the situation they were in, Booker decided to try and delay the inevitable for as long as possible. “And what if I refuse?” he asked in a steady voice that belied his mounting fear.

Bored with Booker’s stalling tactics, Stevenson waved the barrel of his gun behind Tom’s head, making sure to keep the threatening movement out of the young officer’s line of vision. “You have thirty seconds, Brody, and if I don’t see those pretty lips wrapped around Harris’ cock, he’ll be dead in the blink of an eye. And don’t think I won’t do it. It’s happened before, and the Pi Taus are _experts_ at covering things like this up. So get moving, you’ve now got fifteen seconds… fourteen… thirteen… twelve…”

With one final remorseful glance at Tom, Dennis dropped to his knees and in one swift motion, he pulled down his friend’s boxers. Frightened by what was taking place, Tom immediately began to struggle, but with the final countdown ringing in his ears, Booker grasped hold of the young officer’s thighs and taking a deep breath, he took him into his mouth.

Tom’s body bucked forcefully, and his eyes bulged from his sockets as raw panic gripped his heart. “DENNIS, DON’T!” he screamed.

Excited jeering sounded from the back of the room, and several Pi Taus stepped forward, all jostling for a better vantage point. The five remaining pledges stood open-mouthed, their eyes huge in their pale faces. Moments later, Horshack fell to his knees and vomited, his slender body retching violently.

Unaware of the gun pointed at his head, Tom continued to plead, the timbre of his voice rising to a panicked shriek. “Stop, Dennis! Oh, God! Please stop! Don’t! Don’t! _DON’T!”_

Screwing his eyes closed, Booker tightened his grasp, his fingertips digging into the tight, twitching muscles of Tom’s thighs. His lips moved expertly over Tom’s cock, teasing it to life. He had fantasized about this moment for months, but this was not how he had envisioned it playing out. It had always been his hope that he could woo Tom, that in time, he could convince him that gay love was something to be enjoyed. But now, here he was, forcefully taking what was not his to take. He felt sick to his stomach, but he did not stop. He _could_ not stop because if he did, it might cost Tom his life.

As Booker’s hot mouth worked its magic, a tight, panicked feeling closed in on Tom's chest, pressing down on his lungs, the weight crushing his heart. Aware that a Pi Tau was filming the whole degrading act, he willed his body not to react to the titillating feel of Booker's lips engulfing his engorged head. As he felt his cock hardening, he silently begged whichever God was listening to spare him the degradation of ejaculating into Booker’s mouth. But when he was fully erect, he knew he had lost the battle. His mind was powerless to stop what his body desperately craved, and his hips began to jerk forward, the motion forcing his cock deeper into Booker’s mouth. 

Surprised by Tom’s fervent movements, Booker forgot that the younger officer was not a willing participant, and he doubled his efforts. He sucked up and down Tom’s shaft, taking the time to swirl his tongue over the sensitive tip before repeating the motion with varying intensity. When a burst of pre-cum coated his tongue, he groaned in delight; he was finally living his dream.

“Oh, God,” Tom moaned, his desperate utterance a disturbing mixture of pleasure and despair. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh… _AAAGH!”_

Warm semen flooded Booker’s mouth, the saliferous essence awakening his desires, and he lapped hungrily at Tom’s softening cock. His own cock noticeably bulged inside his jeans, desperate for attention, and he longed to release it from its confines and stroke his erection to orgasm. But when Tom suddenly jerked backward, his fantasy bubble burst, and the reality of the situation hit him like a bolt of lightning. 

He had just violated the man he loved.

Slow applause resonated around the room and scrambling to his feet, Booker wiped a trembling hand over his mouth and gazed at his friend. Tom’s head hung forward, his eyes staring listlessly at the floor. It was a gut-wrenching sight and a sharp pain stabbed at Booker’s heart. A desperate need to offer comfort overwhelmed him, and he took a step toward his friend, but McCarter’s cruel laugh stopped him in his tracks.

“Well, look at that, Brody got a hard-on,” McCarter cackled. “I guess I was right all along, you really _did_ enjoy it.”

Spinning around, Booker unleashed his fury. “You sonofabitch!” he spat, his eyes blazing heatedly. “You’re gonna pay for this.”

“Tsk, tsk,” McCarter chided softly. “You think you can scare me? I’m a Pi Tau, I _own_ you and your sweet little boyfriend. And if you think this is over, you’re sorely mistaken. I’ve only just begun to have my fun.”

Staring around the room at the impassive faces of the Pi Tau fraternity, Booker shuddered as the full implication of their situation slowly registered. What had started out five days ago as a game had quickly escalated into sexual assault, and if that was just the beginning of the ritual, then in all likelihood, he and Tom were facing the greatest danger of their lives.


	11. The Nightmare Continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would like to personally thank **JunjouYaoichick, savemyunicornclarence, ToBeOrNotToBe, fortheloveofliterature, Wormy, Ute, Aisha Tsufurujin (KundryAthalia), Peace_On_Earth, TorchwoodCardiff** , as well as the **11 guests** who have left kudos on my story so far. That you have taken the time to read and rate _Beneath a Heart of Darkness_ means the world to me. You guys rock!
> 
> Also, a big thank you to those of you who have also added your thoughts and comments, especially **Aisha Tsufurujin**. My friend, your constant support keeps me trying my best. I honestly can’t thank you enough, but it is my hope that you know how important you are to me. Hugs!
> 
> Now, on with the story!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Screwing his eyes closed, Booker tightened his grasp, his fingertips digging into the tight, twitching muscles of Tom’s thighs. His lips moved expertly over Tom’s cock, teasing it to life. He had fantasized about this moment for months, but this was not how he had envisioned it playing out. It had always been his hope that he could woo Tom, that in time, he could convince him that gay love was something to be enjoyed. But now, here he was, forcefully taking what was not his to take. He felt sick to his stomach, but he did not stop. He could not stop because if he did, it might cost Tom his life._
> 
> _As Booker’s hot mouth worked its magic, a tight, panicked feeling closed in on Tom's chest, pressing down on his lungs, the weight crushing his heart. Aware that a Pi Tau was filming the whole degrading act, he willed his body not to react to the titillating feel of Booker's lips engulfing his engorged head. As he felt his cock hardening, he silently begged whichever God was listening to spare him the degradation of ejaculating into Booker’s mouth. But when he was fully erect, he knew he had lost the battle. His mind was powerless to stop what his body desperately craved, and his hips began to jerk forward, the motion forcing his cock deeper into Booker’s mouth._
> 
> _Surprised by Tom’s fervent movements, Booker forgot that the younger officer was not a willing participant, and he doubled his efforts. He sucked up and down Tom’s shaft, taking the time to swirl his tongue over the sensitive tip before repeating the motion with varying intensity. When a burst of pre-cum coated his tongue, he groaned in delight; he was finally living his dream._
> 
> _“Oh, God,” Tom moaned, his desperate utterance a disturbing mixture of pleasure and despair. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh… AAAGH!”_
> 
> _Warm semen flooded Booker’s mouth, the saliferous essence awakening his desires, and he lapped hungrily at Tom’s softening cock. His own cock noticeably bulged inside his jeans, desperate for attention, and he longed to release it from its confines and stroke his erection to orgasm. But when Tom suddenly jerked backward, his fantasy bubble burst, and the reality of the situation hit him like a bolt of lightning._
> 
> _He had just violated the man he loved._
> 
> _Slow applause resonated around the room and scrambling to his feet, Booker wiped a trembling hand over his mouth and gazed at his friend. Tom’s head hung forward, his eyes staring listlessly at the floor. It was a gut-wrenching sight and a sharp pain stabbed at Booker’s heart. A desperate need to offer comfort overwhelmed him, and he took a step toward his friend, but McCarter’s cruel laugh stopped him in his tracks._
> 
> _“Well, look at that, Brody got a hard-on,” McCarter cackled. “I guess I was right all along, you really did enjoy it.”_
> 
> _Spinning around, Booker unleashed his fury. “You sonofabitch!” he spat, his eyes blazing heatedly. “You’re gonna pay for this.”_
> 
> _“Tsk, tsk,” McCarter chided softly. “You think you can scare me? I’m a Pi Tau, I own you and your sweet little boyfriend. And if you think this is over, you’re sorely mistaken. I’ve only just begun to have my fun.”_
> 
> _Staring around the room at the impassive faces of the Pi Tau fraternity, Booker shuddered as the full implication of their situation slowly registered. What had started out five days ago as a game had quickly escalated into sexual assault, and if that was just the beginning of the ritual, then in all likelihood, he and Tom were facing the greatest danger of their lives._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35798842092/in/dateposted-public/)

Adrenaline pumped through Booker’s veins, the hormone rapidly increasing his metabolism, leaving him sweaty and breathless. His eyes flitted nervously from the 9mm Glock pointing at Tom’s head, to McCarter, and back again. While he knew he needed to act and save Tom from what was sure to be a brutal attack, for once his mind appeared incapable of formulating a plan. He was unarmed and even though he had his badge, he was still reluctant to reveal their true identities. It was obvious McCarter and Stevenson were unstable; both men were riding on a delusional high. They honestly believed that belonging to the Pi Tau fraternity meant they were untouchable. Therefore, if he had any hope of helping Tom and getting them out unscathed, he knew he needed to stay calm and not unnecessarily agitate the two seniors. However, it was not in his nature to kowtow to those who came from privileged backgrounds. He had never felt inferior to people who falsely believed a healthy bank account and an expensive education gave them unlimited rights. His parents had given him the best education they could afford, and he had rewarded them by working hard and becoming a productive member of society. Therefore, he would be damned if he would let two snot-nosed _frat_ boys get the better of him. He would go down fighting, even if it killed him.

But he quickly had a change of heart when his gaze fell on Tom. While he was more than happy to gamble with his own life, he was not prepared to gamble with the life of the man he loved. Tom was more than a crush, he was his everything, and therefore, he needed to push _hotheaded_ Booker to the side and become _diplomatic_ Dennis instead. One of his charms was the gift of the gab, and if he played his cards right, he might just be able to talk his way out of the terrifying situation they now found themselves in.

However, despite coming up with what he now considered an acceptable strategy, his main priority was to reassure Tom. The young officer had not made a sound since succumbing to the sexual assault. He remained suspended from the ceiling, his lifeless eyes staring at the cement floor. His boxers were pooled around his ankles, and his flaccid cock hung between his legs, the smooth tip peeking provocatively out from beneath his tee shirt. The sight was both traumatizing and pathetic, and Booker's heart fluttered painfully in his chest. His beautiful Tommy was broken, and it was all his fault.

Unable to remain a bystander any longer, he threw caution to the wind and stepping forward, he gently placed his palm against Tom’s pale cheek. “Tommy, I’m gonna lift you down and then we’re—”

The remainder of Booker’s words stuck in his throat as Tom jerked violently away, his body swaying like an abandoned marionette. A callous laugh sounded to Booker’s left and without thinking, he reacted by throwing a punch, his fist coming into contact with McCarter’s jaw. The satisfying crack of bone on bone brought a smile to his lips, and he barely registered the stinging pain in his knuckles. _“That’ll teach the sonofabitch,”_ he thought to himself.

But his triumph was short-lived. Two Pi Taus immediately ran forward and tackled him to the ground, the larger of the two slamming his face forcefully into the cold cement floor. He fought valiantly against his assailants, cursing and yelling, his body thrashing from side to side as he attempted to break free. But he was easily overpowered, and moments later, he found himself lying on his side with his arms wrenched behind his back, his wrists and ankles bound together with thick rope.

“YOU FILTHY MOTHERFUCKER!” he screamed at McCarter, the force of his words sending spittle flying from his lips. “I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

“ _Really?”_ McCarter replied calmly, the fingers of his right hand gingerly probing his bruised jaw. “And how _exactly_ are you going to do that, _genius?_ In case you hadn't noticed, your hands and feet are tied, and I'm free to do… well, whatever… I… want.”

Then, to Booker’s horror, McCarter positioned himself behind Tom, and a screeching _zip_ cut through the still air. Startled by the ominous sound, Tom’s head snapped up, a look of confusion on his ashen face. But when the tip of McCarter’s erection touched his backside, he understood what was about to happen, and he recoiled in panic, his body once again swaying helplessly. “DENNIS!” he screamed hysterically, his eyes bulging in terror. “HELP ME!”

Even though he was hog-tied and defenseless, Booker continued to fight. Fear coursed through his body, tensing his muscles and he twisted and writhed against his restraints, his head moving violently from side to side. “DON’T!” he yelled, the pitch of his voice rising to a shriek. “DON’T HURT HIM! PLEASE DON’T HURT HIM!”

Todd Stevenson’s lips pulled back into a ruthless grin, and he moved the gun closer to Tom’s head. “I think it would be in your best interest to shut the fuck up,” he advised menacingly, his tone dripping with rancor.

Despite the warning, Booker was not about to concede defeat, and he fought against his bindings, the veins on his biceps straining against his tanned skin. “Please!” he begged, his dark eyes filling with tears. “Do what you want to me, but don’t hurt Tommy… _please_ don’t hurt my _Tommy!”_

Soft sniggering echoed throughout the basement, and it was then that Booker realized _no one_ was coming to their rescue. Horshack remained crouched on the floor, his head hung low, saliva dripping from his thin lips. He wore an expression of detachment, and the only sign of life was the sound of his jagged breathing racking through his frail body. His mind was shutting down, the brutality of the final ritual too much for him to bear.

McCarter’s face appeared over Tom’s right shoulder, his upper lip curled in amusement. “ _Your_ Tommy?” he taunted softly. “Sorry, Brody, but I think you might be a little confused. He’s _my_ Tommy now.”

Booker started to speak, but a rough hand grabbed his hair, yanking his head backward with such force, his words strangled in his throat. Seconds later, a strip of duct tape was slammed against his mouth, rendering him speechless. His breathing quickened, and he inhaled and exhaled through his nose in what could only be described as a nasal pant. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he choked against the gag. He was about to witness Tommy’s rape, but with his mouth taped and his body immobilized, he was physically incapable of coming to his friend’s rescue.

Never before had he felt so impotent.

When he realized what was about to happen, Tom’s wide, panicked eyes pleaded for help, but it was all in vain. He could feel McCarter’s erection pressing against him and for a fraction of a moment, the sounds around him appeared to mute, and a kaleidoscope of colors swam before his eyes. But when an indescribable pain ripped through his lower body, his senses returned, and he started to scream a high-pitched, terrified scream.

“STOP! OH, GOD! STOP! IT HURTS! IT _HURTS!”_

Booker screamed against his gag. With his wide gaze locked on Hanson’s panicked eyes, he attempted to convey some measure of comfort. But Tom was too hysterical to notice the futile gesture. He was crying uncontrollably, snot bubbling from his nose, the clear mucus mixing with the hot tears streaming down his face. He was trapped in a living nightmare, and he was terrified he would remain there forever.

Moments later, McCarter's cock slammed against his prostate, and the unexpected titillation sparked a bolt of pleasure in his addled brain. A soft moan sounded from between his lips, bringing forth a tinkling of laughter from around the room.

“How small does my dick feel now, Harris?” McCarter breathed into Tom’s ear, his cock pounding in and out of his victim’s blood-slicked channel. “My guess is it feels pretty fucking big.”

“Oh, God,” Tom groaned, the brutality of the rape sending spasms of pain throughout his ravaged body. His mind was a swirling cocktail of confusion. The lower half of his body was a fiery ball of pain, but every time the tip of McCarter’s cock grazed his prostate, a flash of arousal shot through his loins. Although unable to obtain an erection so soon after his encounter with Booker, his testicles swelled, their sensitivity heightening with each savage thrust. Shame and embarrassment flushed his face; McCarter was raping him, and his sick mind was getting off on it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Booker saw Harold flee up the basement stairs, spittle and vomit dripping from his lips. The young student pounded on the door, but it was locked, and he collapsed onto the steps, defeat shining from his terrified eyes.

As the minutes ticked past, Tom eventually fell silent. Booker’s muffled gasps filled the room, accompanied by McCarter’s animalistic grunts. Dozens of Pi Taus and pledges stared with wide, excited eyes at the sexual act playing out before them, their arousal growing with each passing second. Hands massaged cocks through cotton and denim, any sense of moral decency now forgotten as testosterone coursed through their awakening bodies. McCarter’s low growls stimulated them further, and several young men released their erections and openly masturbated, their heavy pants echoing around the room. Only Booker’s and Horshack’s faces registered shock, their horrified expressions mirroring Edvard Munch’s famous painting. Even Tom’s expression had become impassive, his long dark lashes brushing his cheeks, his heavily lidded eyes giving the illusion of sleep. He was entering a state of catatonia, his imagination taking him to a place where pain no longer ripped through his body, and he was free from the humiliation of his rape.

McCarter’s grip tightened around Tom’s hips, his fingernails cruelly biting into the tender flesh. The erotic sexual slapping of skin-on-skin resonated around the basement, and as McCarter’s orgasm started to build inside him, his testicles drew toward his body, and his thrusting became more frenetic. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” he gasped and with a primordial cry of delight, he ejaculated into Tom's abused body.

Several loud groans followed McCarter’s impassioned howl, and the scent of sex permeated the air. With a loud moan, McCarter withdrew his cock, releasing rivulets of semen and blood, the pinkish fluid trickling down the back of Tom’s quivering thighs. Before tucking himself away, he used the back of Tom's tee shirt to wipe the blood from his softening penis. “Who wants to go next?” he asked, a wicked grin splitting his face.

Half a dozen men raised their hands, their eyes shining with savage delight at the prospect of fucking such a sweet piece of ass. But while Tom remained silent, the choking fog swirling through his mind shrouding him from the pain of his assault, Booker’s muffled screams echoed chillingly throughout the basement as he struggled to hold on to his sanity. 

Seconds later, pain exploded in the back of Booker’s head. His vision blurred, and a muffled moan sounded in the back of his throat. He fought to keep his eyes open, to keep his focus on Tom, but the room began to spin, and everything went black...

**

Faint sounds slowly filtered into Booker’s consciousness. Fighting against the foggy blackness veiling his mind, he attempted to open his eyes, but it took several long minutes before they finally fluttered open. Blinded by the harsh lights, he blinked in rapid succession until his vision cleared. His body felt numb, apart from a slight tingling in his hands, but there was pain too, the dull ache in his head triggering a vague memory of something important… someone in trouble… 

_Tom!_

With his physical injury now a distant memory, Booker struggled to sit up. But he immediately rolled onto his stomach, and it was then that he remembered his wrists and ankles were bound together like a spit-roast hog, only in reverse. The knowledge awakened his sleeping muscles, and pain ripped through his shoulders and legs, the discomfort bringing forth unwanted tears. Desperately seeking answers, his panicked eyes roamed the room until eventually, his gaze fell on Tom. A sob caught in his throat, the tape on his mouth muffling his distress. He had failed the man he loved, and both their lives would be irreparably changed forever.

Moments later, a pair of loafer-clad feet came into his view. He tried to roll away, but the male figure squatted down, and with one swift motion, ripped the tape from his lips, the savage act leaving a stinging afterburn. Gulping in some much-needed air, he gazed up into the cruel eyes of Michael McCarter. “You're all going down for this,” he croaked.

A low, hollow laugh resonated deep inside McCarter’s chest. “No, we're not. I'm pretty certain young Thomas won't want this tape released, and it _will_ be released if you report what happened here today. Well, an _edited_ version of it anyway.”

Booker’s gaze shifted to Tom. The young officer remained suspended from the ceiling, his eyes closed, and his head bowed against his chest. A silvery thread of saliva hung from his lips, glittering translucently in the fluorescent lighting, his chest barely moving as he drew in short, shallow breaths. He was beyond pitiful; he was mentally and physically broken.

Turning his attention back to McCarter, Booker’s eyes burned furiously. “You’re a fucking rapist!” he spat through dry, chapped lips. “If the tape is released, _you'll_ go to prison for what you did to Tom. You _and_ your buddies.”

Rubbing a hand over the reddish contusion on his chin, McCarter grinned a wolfish grin. “Doubtful. After all, _I_ can afford the best attorney money can buy. You don’t want to mess with me, _Brody,_ ‘cause if you do, I’ll come out squeaky clean, and Harris? Well, he'll look like a two-bit whore.”

Booker started to speak, but McCarter ignored him and standing up, he addressed two senior Pi Taus. “Get him down,” he instructed, his head nodding in Tom’s direction, “and untie the tough guy. I don’t think he’ll cause us any more trouble.”

After untying Booker, the two Pi Taus unhooked Tom. The heavier of the two men held the slender officer upright as the other unlocked his handcuffs. With a nod from McCarter, the man released his hold, and Tom crumpled to the cement floor, his lack of rigidity reminding Booker of a child's neglected rag doll.

However, the jolt appeared to awaken Hanson from his fugue-like state, and getting to his hands and knees, he scurried across the basement floor, disappearing into a darkened corner like a wounded animal. Somebody laughed, but the sound was more of a high-pitched hysterical screech than a chuckle of amusement, and suddenly, the reality of what they had done became clear to the young men in the room. They had just participated in a gang rape, and if caught, they faced years in prison.

Instinctively, Booker made a move to go after Tom, but McCarter's foot stamped on his hand, the heel grinding his bones painfully against the cool, cement floor.

“There’s a bathroom through that door,” the Pledge Master advised, his chin motioning to the back of the basement. “When he’s cleaned up, we’ll let you go. Understood?”

Once free to rise, Booker clambered slowly to his feet, his cramped muscles screaming in protest. But he ignored both his pain _and_ McCarter and turning away, he limped across the room in search of Tom.


	12. An Unlikely Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **My apologies for taking so long to write this chapter. After Tom's rape scene, I needed some _time out_ so I wrote "Have a Little Faith in Me" and "Crime and Punishment". But I'm back on track now, so hopefully I will continue to post weekly.**
> 
> **In Peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Faint sounds slowly filtered into Booker’s consciousness. Fighting against the foggy blackness veiling his mind, he attempted to open his eyes, but it took several long minutes before they finally fluttered open. Blinded by the harsh lights, he blinked in rapid succession until his vision cleared. His body felt numb, apart from a slight tingling in his hands, but there was pain too, the dull ache in his head triggering a vague memory of something important… someone in trouble…_
> 
> _Tom!_
> 
> _With his physical injury now a distant memory, Booker struggled to sit up. But he immediately rolled onto his stomach, and it was then that he remembered his wrists and ankles were bound together like a spit-roast hog, only in reverse. The knowledge awakened his sleeping muscles, and pain ripped through his shoulders and legs, the discomfort bringing forth unwanted tears. Desperately seeking answers, his panicked eyes roamed the room until eventually, his gaze fell on Tom. A sob caught in his throat, the tape on his mouth muffling his distress. He had failed the man he loved, and both their lives would be irreparably changed forever._
> 
> _Moments later, a pair of loafer-clad feet came into his view. He tried to roll away, but the male figure squatted down, and with one swift motion, ripped the tape from his lips, the savage act leaving a stinging afterburn. Gulping in some much-needed air, he gazed up into the cruel eyes of Michael McCarter. “You're all going down for this,” he croaked._
> 
> _A low, hollow laugh resonated deep inside McCarter’s chest. “No, we're not. I'm pretty certain young Thomas won't want this tape released, and it will be released if you report what happened here today. Well, an edited version of it anyway.”  
>  Booker’s gaze shifted to Tom. The young officer remained suspended from the ceiling, his eyes closed, and his head bowed against his chest. A silvery thread of saliva hung from his lips, glittering translucently in the fluorescent lighting, his chest barely moving as he drew in short, shallow breaths. He was beyond pitiful; he was mentally and physically broken._
> 
> _Turning his attention back to McCarter, Booker’s eyes burned furiously. “You’re a fucking rapist!” he spat through dry, chapped lips. “If the tape is released, you'll go to prison for what you did to Tom. You and your buddies.”_
> 
> _Rubbing a hand over the reddish contusion on his chin, McCarter grinned a wolfish grin. “Doubtful. After all, I can afford the best attorney money can buy. You don’t want to mess with me, Brody, ‘cause if you do, I’ll come out squeaky clean, and Harris? Well, he'll look like a two-bit whore.”_
> 
> _Booker started to speak, but McCarter ignored him and standing up, he addressed two senior Pi Taus. “Get him down,” he instructed, his head nodding in Tom’s direction, “and untie the tough guy. I don’t think he’ll cause us any more trouble.”_
> 
> _After untying Booker, the two Pi Taus unhooked Tom. The heavier of the two men held the slender officer upright as the other unlocked his handcuffs. With a nod from McCarter, the man released his hold, and Tom crumpled to the cement floor, his lack of rigidity reminding Booker of a child's neglected rag doll._
> 
> _However, the jolt appeared to awaken Hanson from his fugue-like state, and getting to his hands and knees, he scurried across the basement floor, disappearing into a darkened corner like a wounded animal. Somebody laughed, but the sound was more of a high-pitched hysterical screech than a chuckle of amusement, and suddenly, the reality of what they had done became clear to the young men in the room. They had just participated in a gang rape, and if caught, they faced years in prison._
> 
> _Instinctively, Booker made a move to go after Tom, but McCarter's foot stamped on his hand, the heel grinding his bones painfully against the cool, cement floor._
> 
> _“There’s a bathroom through that door,” the Pledge Master advised, his chin motioning to the back of the basement. “When he’s cleaned up, we’ll let you go. Understood?”_
> 
> _Once free to rise, Booker clambered slowly to his feet, his cramped muscles screaming in protest. But he ignored both his pain and McCarter and turning away, he limped across the room in search of Tom._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35159582073/in/dateposted-public/)

When the last Pi Tau exited the basement, the door slammed closed, and the room plunged into darkness. With his arms outstretched, Booker stumbled blindly across the room, his breath rasping painfully in his throat. “TOM!” he yelled. “TOM, WHERE ARE YOU?”

Stony silence greeted his question, and stopping next to the staircase, he closed his eyes and inhaled several deep, calming breaths. He had trained for this type of situation, and he knew the best way to help Tom was to put his emotions to one side and start behaving like an experienced police officer.

Opening his eyes, he stood still for several minutes until his vision had adjusted to the gloom. He could make out the outline of the large workbench where their first hazing ritual had taken place, and moving forward, he stopped next to the counter. Now that he had his bearings, his eyes scanned the dimly lit room. Outside, the sun peeked out from behind the heavy rain clouds, its rays casting a small amount of light through the narrow basement window. With the gift of sunlight, Booker’s gaze immediately fell on Tom’s semi-naked body, and his heart leaped into his throat. The young officer sat crouched in a corner, his arms wrapped protectively around his head. Even from a distance, Booker could detect the violent tremors racking his friend’s slender frame, and he wondered if Tom had gone into shock. 

“Hey, Tommy,” he murmured, his voice belying the heaviness in his heart. “It’s okay, it’s only me, you’re safe now.” 

When he received no answer, he slowly inched forward, making sure to keep his movements non-threatening. As he stepped closer, he could hear the sound of soft whimpering, and his heart began to hammer painfully in his chest. He had no idea how to calm a victim of rape—that was _certainly_ not part of the Academy’s curriculum—and therefore, he decided to revert to _friend mode,_ at least until he could give his partner the reassurance he needed.

When he finally stood next to Tom’s quivering body, he squatted down and reached out a comforting hand. But as his fingertips made contact with his friend’s sweat-matted hair, Tom jerked violently away, an anguished cry sounding from between his lips. Startled by the reaction, Booker toppled backward, his backside hitting the cold cement floor with a thud. His eyes grew wide, and he watched with growing horror as Tom—his arms now crossed over his chest, his hands gripping his shoulders—began rocking back and forth, the back of his head slamming into the brick wall behind him. 

Afraid that Tom might seriously hurt himself, Booker lunged forward and pulled him into his arms. “Tommy, no!” 

But Tom was too traumatized to hear Booker’s desperate plea and believing he was once again under attack, he lashed out; his arms and legs flailing in panic. His fingernails ripped down the flesh of Booker’s cheek, drawing blood to the surface of the tanned skin, but he was unaware of the damage he was causing his friend. His mind had shut down, and he was acting on instinct alone. 

Booker's fight to restrain Tom’s thrashing body became a battle of wills. Droplets of blood seeped from the wound on his cheek, and his aching muscles screamed in protest. But he ignored the pain and eventually, Tom’s body went limp in his arms. An eerie silence settled over the basement, but it was the calm before the storm. Moments later, a loud, racking sob split through the peacefulness, and Tom broke down in a flood of tears.

“Shhh, baby,” Booker whispered, and clumsily pulling Tom into his lap, he rocked him like a small child. “It’s okay. No one can hurt you now.”

Tom’s distressed sobs filled the air, his hot tears soaking through the cotton of Booker’s tee shirt. Shame smoldered in his soul, burning a hole in his humanity. But nothing compared to the fiery pain exploding deep inside his damaged anus. Torn muscles and ripped flesh wept bloody rivulets, coating his thighs in the sticky sanguine fluid. Seven men had robbed him of his innocence. Seven men had violently taken from him what should only be given in love, and in doing so, those seven men had destroyed his trust, changing his life forever.

The Tom Hanson of old no longer existed, all that remained was a broken shadow of his former self.

Ten minutes passed before Tom’s sobs slowly transformed into soft hiccups. Suddenly aware of his semi-nakedness, he jerked free from Booker’s hold and shuffling backward, he pulled the front of his tee shirt over his thighs, covering his shame. When his friend attempted to reach out to him, he shrank away, his knees drawing up to his chest. “Don’t.”

“Sorry,” Booker murmured, his eyes focused on the smears of blood staining the cement floor. There was no doubt his friend was in need of urgent medical attention, and he knew he must quickly formulate a plan, or Tom could face serious medical consequences.

Following Booker’s line of vision, Tom’s cheeks flamed red when he saw the blood, and he lowered his eyes to the floor. “I’m okay,” he mumbled in a small voice, stretching his tee shirt over his knees. “I just want to go home.”

Booker recognized the need to tread warily, and he spoke in a soft, compassionate voice. “Tom, you’re hurt. We need to find a way out so you can go to the hospital. Then the doctors can check you over and get DNA evidence so we can take these bastards down.”

Once again, a tremulous wave of emotion broke across Tom’s face, and his eyes grew wide with alarm before once again clouding into a blank stare. “No,” he muttered with an adamant shake of his head, his eyes refusing to meet Dennis’ earnest stare. “I don't want anyone to know.” 

Surprised by Tom's proclamation, Booker’s face registered his shock. “Tom, you _have_ to report it! You need to file charges because if you don’t they’ll do it to somebody else.”

“THEN LET SOMEBODY ELSE STAND UP IN A COURTROOM AND HUMILIATE THEMSELVES,” Tom yelled, his anger bubbling forth in a torrent of emotion. “BECAUSE I'M NOT FUCKING _DOING IT!_ GOT _IT?”_

Confused by Tom’s reasoning, Booker attempted to convince him by using cop logic. “Look, you know better than anyone how it works; we explain it to victims all the—”

“I'm not a fucking victim!” 

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry,” Booker quickly placated. “It's just... Jesus, Tommy, you can't let them get away with it.”

“They already have,” Tom whispered, a single tear rolling down his cheek. “No matter what happens, nothing can change what they did to me... what _you_ did to me.”

Booker held Tom's gaze for a moment before lowering his eyes, a light flush creeping up his neck. “They had a gun, Tommy,” he explained quietly. "I didn't have a choice.”

“You got off on it… I saw you.”

“Tom... I—”

“You had an erection!” Tom cried out, pain and anguish filling his dark eyes. “Sucking me off gave you a fucking erection, and that makes you no different to them!”

Disturbed by Tom’s accusation, Booker’s face paled. “I _told_ you! Stevenson had a gun and—”

It was then that Tom dropped the bombshell. “I didn’t see a gun,” he informed Booker in a cool voice. “How do I know you’re not making it up?”

Booker’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Tom’s left eye twitched nervously, but he stubbornly held Booker’s gaze. “Maybe ‘cause you wanted to do it,” he challenged, and before Booker could retort, he hastily added, “Or maybe you were in on it all along.”

A look of revulsion passed over Booker’s face, and he jerked backward, his body physically recoiling from Tom’s accusatory stare. _“That’s_ what you think?” he choked, his eyes widening in horror. “After everything we’ve been through, how the hell could you even _consider_ a thing like that?”

With his emotions in turmoil, Tom’s mind snapped. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK!” he screamed hysterically, his fingers ripping at his hair. “I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW…”

Frightened by Hanson’s wild outburst, Booker held out his hands and standing up, he slowly backed away, giving his friend some space. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothed in a trembling voice. “I’m sorry, I know—”

“You don’t know shit,” Tom murmured, tears clinging to the long, dark lashes of his now deadpan eyes, and lowering his head to his knees, he wrapped his arms around his legs and resumed his rocking.

**

**Five hours later**

To Booker’s relief, after hours of silent rocking, Tom had finally fallen asleep. With his back to the wall, the young officer lay on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. The faint sunlight filtering in through the window highlighted the paleness of his face, and he looked much younger than his twenty-three years. But what disturbed Booker the most was the blood and semen coating his friend’s thighs, and as he watched Tom fall into a fitful sleep, he gave himself permission to grieve. Tears rolled unchecked down his drawn face; all the pain and misery in his heart flowing free in a silent display of sorrow and regret. He had screwed up big time, and he had paid the ultimate price; his Tommy lay battered and bleeding, and it was doubtful he would ever be forgiven for not saving his friend from the horrors of a gang rape.

Once certain that Tom was asleep, Booker ventured into the bathroom and taking a towel from the railing, he went over to his friend and draped it over the lower-half of his body. He tried to convince himself that the reason he had waited for Tom to fall asleep before going to the retrieve the towel was because he did not want to alert his friend to the presence of a shower. But that was only part of the reason. While he was legitimately trying to preserve the evidence on Tom’s body, he had also waited until the young officer was asleep before covering him because he could not face the accusatory look in his eyes a second time. Tom viewed him in the same light as he viewed his rapists; he was scum, he had sexually abused the man he loved, and he was certain the young officer would never forgive him. 

After satisfying himself that Tom was not in any imminent danger, he began looking for a way out of the basement. There were only two exits, the locked door leading into the Pi Tau kitchen, and the narrow window set just below the ceiling. He knew there was no point banging on the door, and after studying the window, he came to the conclusion that even if he could reach it, it was too narrow for him to crawl through. Like it or not, they were trapped. The only way out was if Tom took a shower, and Booker was not about to let all the DNA evidence wash down the drain into the Los Angeles sewerage system; he would find another way out.

Turning around, he was surprised to see Tom sitting with his back to the wall, his drawn-up knees covered by the blood-stained towel. The young officer stared straight ahead, his deadpan visage fixed in an unmovable, ghost-like mask. Booker had enough experience on the job to know Tom was now exhibiting symptoms of flat affect, a severe reduction in emotional expressiveness and a common reaction following trauma. It was not a good sign, and a chill of concern ran down his spine. Things were heading from bad to worse with every passing hour, and his sense of helplessness left him with feelings of impotence and self-loathing.

Being careful not to startle Tom, he moved slowly forward, his hands held out in front of him. “Hey, Tommy,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’m gonna sit down next to you so we can talk, okay?”

There was no acknowledgment in Tom’s dark eyes, and for Booker, he found his friend’s silence and detachment far more disturbing than the emotional outburst hours before. Hanson’s regression was a sure sign that he was withdrawing from the world, and that meant he was either in shock or heading toward a breakdown. 

Making sure to keep a few feet between them, Booker sat down in the cross-legged position next to Tom. Even though his mind was in turmoil, he took his time and chose his words with measured care. “We need to find a way out, Tommy, but I’m out of ideas. I need your help.”

Silence met his quiet request and he sighed in frustration. “Shit,” he muttered to himself, his long fingers raking through his tousled hair. “Now what am I s’posed to do?”

At that moment, divine intervention stepped forth and waved her magic wand. The screech of metal on metal signaled the drawing back of a door bolt, and scrambling to his feet, Booker ran to the bottom of the staircase. The basement door swung open, flooding the room with light and shielding his eyes, Booker peered up at the figure standing at the top of the stairs. “Please,” he begged in a loud voice. “Tom’s hurt, he needs to go to the hospital.”

 _“Shhh,”_ a panicked voice shushed. “Keep your voice down.”

Booker’s eyes widened in surprise. “Harold?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

Harold Horshack hurriedly descended the stairs, his pale face etched with fear. “We have to hurry,” he advised in a hushed tone. “They’ve gone to a bar to celebrate, but who knows when they’ll be back.”

Relief surged through Booker’s body and throwing his arms around the startled freshman, he squeezed him tight. “You’re a fucking hero, Harold,” he praised, his voice filling with emotion.

Embarrassment heated Harold’s face and reseating his glasses, he smiled broadly. “Fuck the Pi Taus,” he said, his chest swelling with a newfound confidence. “If the three of us stick together, we can take those bastards down.”

Booker’s mouth split into a broad grin, and he clapped Harold forcefully on the back. “You’ve gotta lot of balls, Harold Horshack. But first things first. We need to get Tom to a hospital.”

Concern clouded Horshack’s face. “Is he… is he okay?”

“No,” Booker replied truthfully. “But thanks to you, he now has a chance of recovery.”

Horshack nodded solemnly. “Lead the way.”


	13. There's No Place like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Although this chapter might seem like a filler, I felt it was important to portray the interaction between Dennis, Tom, and Harold.**
> 
> **I hope it doesn't disappoint.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Making sure to keep a few feet between them, Booker sat down in the cross-legged position next to Tom. Even though his mind was in turmoil, he took his time and chose his words with measured care. “We need to find a way out, Tommy, but I’m out of ideas. I need your help.”_
> 
> _Silence met his quiet request and he sighed in frustration. “Shit,” he muttered to himself, his long fingers raking through his tousled hair. “Now what am I s’posed to do?”_
> 
> _At that moment, divine intervention stepped forth and waved her magic wand. The screech of metal on metal signaled the drawing back of a door bolt, and scrambling to his feet, Booker ran to the bottom of the staircase. The basement door swung open, flooding the room with light and shielding his eyes, Booker peered up at the figure standing at the top of the stairs. “Please,” he begged in a loud voice. “Tom’s hurt, he needs to go to the hospital.”_
> 
> _“Shhh,” a panicked voice shushed. “Keep your voice down.”_
> 
> _Booker’s eyes widened in surprise. “Harold?” he whispered. “Is that you?”_
> 
> _Harold Horshack hurriedly descended the stairs, his pale face etched with fear. “We have to hurry,” he advised in a hushed tone. “They’ve gone to the pub to celebrate, but who knows when they’ll be back.”_
> 
> _Relief surged through Booker’s body and throwing his arms around the startled freshman, he squeezed him tight. “You’re a fucking hero, Harold,” he praised, his voice filling with emotion._
> 
> _Embarrassment heated Harold’s face and reseating his glasses, he smiled broadly. “Fuck the Pi Taus,” he said, his chest swelling with a newfound confidence. “If the three of us stick together, we can take those bastards down.”_
> 
> _Booker’s mouth split into a broad grin, and he clapped Harold forcefully on the back. “You’ve gotta lot of balls, Harold Horshack. But first things first. We need to get Tom to a hospital.”_
> 
> _Concern clouded Horshack’s face. “Is he… is he okay?”_
> 
> _“No,” Booker replied truthfully. “But thanks to you, he now has a chance of recovery.”_
> 
> _Horshack nodded solemnly. “Lead the way.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35836906111/in/dateposted-public/)

Afraid Tom would lash out if he made contact, Booker stood back and let Horshack take the lead. He watched as the young freshmen spoke to Tom in a calm, gentle voice, telling him he was there to help and they were going to walk out of the Pi Tau house and get into his car. At first, Tom showed no signs he had heard, but eventually, his eyes came back into focus, and his bottom lip started to tremble uncontrollably. “I just want to go home,” he whispered. “Please, just take me home.”

Much to Booker’s annoyance, Horshack nodded his head. “Okay, Harris. If that’s what you want, I’ll drive you home.”

Wiping a stray tear from his face, Tom shook his head. “It’s not Harris; it’s Hanson.”

Confused by Tom’s confession, Harold turned to Booker. “What’s he talking about?”

“I’ll explain later,” Booker declared in a rush of words, his eyes flitting nervously between Tom and the basement door. “We need to get out of here.”

“Agreed,” Horshack replied and placing an arm around Hanson’s shoulders, he helped him to his feet. Tom clutched the towel around his waist, and it was then Booker remembered their discarded clothing. He hurried over to the pile and gathering up their jeans, boots and socks, he bundled them together and held them in his arms.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, nervous tension building in his neck and shoulders. “I’ll feel much happier once we’re miles away from here.”

Keeping a protective arm around Tom, Horshack helped him up the wooden steps. The Pi Tau house was eerily quiet, the last of the sun’s rays filtering in through the sash windows. They moved quickly but silently through the empty house and exited through the rear door. After seeing Tom safely into the back seat, Harold moved around to the driver’s side, but Booker grabbed his arm. “You _are_ gonna drive him to the hospital, right?”

Horshack rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. Although not keen to get into an argument with Dennis, in the last few hours he had discovered a confidence he had not known he possessed, and taking a deep breath, he shook his head. “I think we should take him home if that’s what he wants.”

Booker’s grip tightened, his fingers pinching the freckled flesh of Harold’s arm. “No,” he replied through clenched teeth. “This isn’t about what Tom _wants;_ it’s about what Tom _needs._ Got it?”

Without fear of reprisal, Horshack pulled his arm free from Booker’s hold. “What Tom _needs_ is to go home,” he stated in a _don’t fuck with me_ tone, “and that’s _exactly_ where I’m taking him. If you don’t want to come, you can find your own way.”

Surprised by the forcefulness of Horshack’s character, Booker stared back incredulously. However, _needs must when the devil drives,_ and he knew he had no choice but to go along with the feisty freshman. It was only a temporary setback. He was certain once he had Tom in his apartment, he could talk him into going to the hospital.

“Okay,” he conceded and climbing into the passenger seat, he slammed the door shut with a force that rocked the battered Toyota on its axle. After a quick search through the pockets of Tom’s jeans, he found his keys and twisting around, he peered through the gap in the bucket seats. “Hang tight, Tommy, you’ll be home soon.”

When Tom remained stubbornly silent, Booker wondered if he hadn’t heard or if he was purposely ignoring him. He gazed at the bloody towel wrapped around his friend’s narrow waist, and the sight brought home the enormity of the situation. Now they had escaped, this was just the beginning of a very long journey of recovery for Tom, and he could not help but wonder if his friend would ever be the same man again.

**

Twenty minutes later, Harold parked the Toyota in front of Tom’s apartment building. Shutting down the engine, he started to open his door when a hand gripped his shoulder, preventing him from moving. “Thanks for your help, Harold,” Booker expressed in a flat voice, a determined look darkening his eyes. “But I can take it from here.”

Horshack turned his head and gazed down at Tom’s motionless body. “I dunno. Maybe I should—”

“I _said_ I’ve got it!” Booker snapped, his irritability ripping through his calm exterior. Emotional and physical exhaustion swamped his aching body, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache stabbing behind his right eye. But he knew it was nothing compared to what Tom must be feeling, and he longed to get his friend into the privacy of his apartment so he could sit him down and convince him to go to the hospital. Although certain Hanson’s injuries weren’t life threatening, he did require medical attention. Blood still seeped from his damaged anus, and he needed to undertake a thorough blood screening to rule out any sexually transmitted diseases. None of his rapists had used protection, and that left him vulnerable and at risk. Booker also understood the need to collect DNA evidence quickly before it could become compromised. Even if he had to make it his personal mission, he _would_ find a way to arrest and charge every, single motherfucker who had violated his beloved Tom. He would not rest until they were locked up behind bars, even though he knew there was a strong likelihood they too would become victims of the same crime they had committed. Rape was rife in prison, but if it happened, he would feel no sympathy for Tom’s attackers. Although not a religious man, an eye for an eye seemed an adequate punishment, and he would have no trouble sleeping knowing that once they were convicted, they would live in constant fear, never knowing if a sexual attack was imminent. It was the perfect retribution, and then (and only then), would he feel as though Tom had received the justice he deserved.

Revenge would be honeysuckle sweet.

Without waiting for Horshack’s response, he opened the car door and stepped onto the pavement. Yanking open the back passenger door, he leaned in and addressed Tom in a quiet voice. “C’mon, Tommy, you’re home. Let’s get you inside.”

Tom’s eyelids fluttered open, but his wide-eyed gaze remained blank. Desperate to get his friend inside and out of the view of prying eyes, Booker tried again in a firmer voice. “Tommy. You need to get out of the car.”

A shadow of comprehension passed over Tom’s gaunt face, and his body started to tremble. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this,” he whispered, his fingers picking anxiously at the blood-stained towel wrapped around his waist. “If they see me like this they’ll know.”

Mentally cursing himself for behaving like an inconsiderate fool, Booker rubbed at the flesh just above his right eye. His headache now felt like a jackhammer drilling into his brain, and a wave of nausea rolled over him. But he knew he needed to keep it together for Tom’s sake, and closing his eyes, he took several deep, calming breaths before speaking again. “Okay. Give me a minute, and I’ll go up and get a blanket.”

“No, I’ll go.”

Straightening up, Booker turned to see Horshack standing behind him, a hand outstretched, palm upward, and a small smile twitched briefly at the corners of his lips as he passed over Tom’s keys. “Thanks, Harold. You’ve been a real friend. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t come and rescued us.”

“Yeah, well, if you and Tom hadn’t stepped in, McCarter would have force fed me rotten eggs,” Harold explained with a bitter smile. “I owe you guys.”

“Not any more,” Booker stated softly, his dark eyes twinkling with gratitude. “We owe _you,_ so if there’s anything you need—”

“The apartment number?” Harold suggested quickly, uncomfortable with all the appreciation Dennis was bestowing upon him. Brought up in a household of uncommunicative academics, he had not received much praise growing up, and the new experience made his skin crawl with embarrassment. He felt awkward and duplicitous; none of his actions warranted commendation, he had only done what he thought was right, nothing more. But a small part of him was pleased someone as fearless and confident as Dennis now considered him his friend. It was a step toward a new beginning, and despite all the heartache, he knew he would be eternally grateful the universe had given him the opportunity to meet two men who doggedly stood up for what they believed in. He finally had the confidence to step out of the shadows and into the light, and it was all because of a chance meeting in a fraternity house. Life was a puzzle, but now, more than ever, Harold was glad to be a part of it, and he hoped Tom would eventually come to realize that what happened to him in the basement in no way defined him as a person from that moment forward. He was not a victim, he was a survivor, and the only ones to blame were the seven perpetrators. Not that Harold pretended to know how Tom was feeling; no one could unless they had suffered the same violation. But he did know a thing or two about abuse, and he hoped one day down the track, he would get the chance to speak to Tom again so he could tell him how grateful he was to have met him.

Somewhat surprised by Harold’s obvious discomfort, Booker gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Two-twenty-two, and hurry.”

With a nod of his head, Harold turned and jogged up the path to the building’s entrance. Once he had disappeared into the apartment complex, Booker’s attention focused back on Tom. The young officer was now sitting upright with his back against the door and his legs curled beneath him. Uncontrollable shakes racked his slender frame, and Booker was certain he could hear his teeth chattering. It was obvious Tom was in shock, either from blood loss or the brutality of the rape, and he realized it was time to ditch the softly-softly approach; his friend needed an ambulance, and he needed it now.

Climbing into the back seat, he made sure not to crowd Hanson, but when he spoke, he did so in a decisive tone. “Look, Tom. I know I’m the last person you trust at the moment, but you _need_ to go to the hospital.”

Tom’s head shook violently from side to side, the sweaty strands of his long bangs whipping across his pale face. “I-I d-don’t wa-want t-to,” he stammered, his agitation mounting. “I j-just wa-wanna go _h-home!”_

The sharp stabbing pain in Booker’s temple grew steadily stronger, and beads of perspiration prickled his armpits. He was rapidly losing patience and for a moment he wondered if it would just be easier to let Tom have his way. But when he thought about Michael McCarter’s smug face, he knew he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just about doing what was right for Tom; it was about doing what was right period.

Therefore, with McCarter's face firmly ingrained in his mind, Booker decided to lull Tom into _thinking_ they were going up to his apartment so he could take a shower, but really, they were going up to phone the paramedics. If he couldn’t get Tom to the hospital, he would bring the hospital to Tom. Simple.

“Okay,” he placated, a fake smile twisting his lips. “As soon as Harold gets back with the blanket, I’ll take you home.”

Tom’s face visibly relaxed, but his body continued to tremble uncontrollably. However, he could see a bright light at the end of the long, dark, painful tunnel that was now his existence. All he had to do was hold on long enough so he could rid himself of the foulness polluting his ravaged body, and then he could crawl into bed, go to sleep, and hopefully, never wake up.


	14. Shelter for a Bloodstained Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Climbing into the back seat, he made sure not to crowd Hanson, but when he spoke, he did so in a decisive tone. “Look, Tom. I know I’m the last person you trust at the moment, but you need to go to the hospital.”_
> 
> _Tom’s head shook violently from side to side, the sweaty strands of his long bangs whipping across his pale face. “I-I d-don’t wa-want t-to,” he stammered, his agitation mounting. “I j-just wa-wanna go h-home!”_
> 
> _The sharp stabbing pain in Booker’s temple grew steadily stronger, and beads of perspiration prickled his armpits. He was rapidly losing patience and for a moment he wondered if it would just be easier to let Tom have his way. But when he thought about Michael McCarter’s smug face, he knew he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just about doing what was right for Tom; it was about doing what was right period._
> 
> _Therefore, with McCarter's face firmly ingrained in his mind, Booker decided to lull Tom into thinking they were going up to his apartment so he could take a shower, but really, they were going up to phone the paramedics. If he couldn’t get Tom to the hospital, he would bring the hospital to Tom. Simple._
> 
> _“Okay,” he placated, a fake smile twisting his lips. “As soon as Harold gets back with the blanket, I’ll take you home.”_
> 
> _Tom’s face visibly relaxed, but his body continued to tremble uncontrollably. However, he could see a bright light at the end of the long, dark, painful tunnel that was now his existence. All he had to do was hold on long enough so he could rid himself of the foulness polluting his ravaged body, and then he could crawl into bed, go to sleep, and hopefully, never wake up._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35580650180/in/dateposted-public/)

For Booker, the walk up to the second-floor apartment took a thousand lifetimes. Making sure to stay a few steps behind, he watched in silence as Tom shuffled haltingly in his bare feet along the worn linoleum floors, a light cotton blanket held securely around his hunched shoulders, shielding his body from view. When they finally reached Tom's residence, Booker turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. No light shone through the curtained windows, the week-long dereliction casting a doleful gloom around the apartment. It was Dennis’ first glimpse of Tom's home, and his first impression was it appeared cold and cheerless. But he quickly realized the uncomfortable vibe wasn't radiating from the room, it was his somber demeanor reflecting outward. He could have stood in front of the warmth of a raging fire, and he would still have felt chilled to the bone. The emotion of the day had started to take its toll, and all he wanted to do was go home and take a long, hot shower.

Without switching on a light, Tom walked in and slowly limped toward the bathroom, but Booker’s worried voice stopped him before he was halfway across the room. “Tom, wait!”

Not wanting another face-to-face confrontation, Tom remained where he was standing, his back facing the dark-haired officer. “What?” 

His voice sounded strange, low and flat, and Booker hesitated for a moment, afraid what he was about to say would further distress his friend. But ultimately, he knew it was his duty as an officer of the law to prevent Tom from showering and removing the vital evidence that coated his body. It was an awkward situation, but if he wanted to ensure the culprits responsible for Tom’s rape were held accountable for their crime, he needed to forget his emotional attachment to his friend and act like a cop. There were no second chances in cases like these; once the evidence was gone, it was gone.

With the pounding in his head becoming progressively worse, he ran a shaky hand through his hair and his fingers came in contact with a large lump caked in dry blood. His head injury was obviously more serious than he had originally thought, and now the adrenaline had stopped flowing through his body, he was finding it increasingly difficult to focus his eyes. Droplets of sweat trickled down his face, and he licked his lips as he struggled to maintain his composure. He needed to make Tom understand the importance of going to the hospital, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult now he was succumbing to his own injuries. Flashes of white blinded his eyes, disorienting him, and releasing the clothing from his arms, he steadied himself against the wall. Heat prickled his skin, and a wave of dizziness rolled over him. He knew he was about to pass out, but he fought to remain upright. Tom was still his priority, and he needed to stay alert or risk failing his friend for a second time. But when a blackness slowly enveloped him, he knew he was losing the battle and with a long, drawn out moan, he slumped to the floor.

Seconds later, his eyelids fluttered open, and his bleary gaze settled on Tom’s anxious face. 

“Jesus, Dennis, are you—”

“M’okay,” Booker mumbled, pushing himself up on his elbows. “It’s just a bump on the head.”

“You’re bleeding,” Tom stated softly, his long fingers gently caressing Booker’s matted hair. “What did they do to you?”

The tender concern in Tom’s eyes sent a shiver through Booker’s aching body. He longed to savor the moment, but instead, he seized the fortuitous opportunity his fainting episode had presented. “I dunno, someone hit me with something. I think… I think I might need an ambulance.”

Fear flashed in Tom’s eyes, and he started to chew frantically on his lower lip. “Are you sure? I mean, you said yourself, it’s just a bump.”

Pleased Tom was showing concern and once again communicating with him, Booker faked a moan. “I’m sure,” he muttered, closing his eyes for theatrical effect. Seldom had he behaved like such a deceitful bastard, but his priority was to get Tom to a hospital, and if he had to exaggerate the extent of his injuries a little, well, he was more than prepared to be a lying sonofabitch. After all, it _was_ for the greater good.

When Hanson remained silent, Booker took it up a notch. “Tommy, please,” he moaned. “I _really_ need to go to the hospital.”

Tom’s emotions surged to the surface in one huge tidal wave of emotion. Panic swamped his mind, and his mouth writhed, his dark eyes suffused with unshed tears. “But… but… they’ll know! Dennis, they’ll _know!”_

“Tom…”

“OKAY!” Tom yelled, his body jerking with agitation, and rising to his feet, he shuffled over to the door. Moments later, the room was bathed in light, the unexpected brightness causing Booker to squint. The dark-haired officer watched as Tom picked up the phone and dialed 911. When he heard Tom give the address and a brief description of his injury, he visibly relaxed and lowering his head back to the floor, he closed his eyes and heaved a heavy, weary sigh. However, his relief was only momentary. Seconds later, the slam of a door startled him back to wakefulness and opening his eyes he stared around the empty room in confusion. But when the sound of running water reached his ears, he quickly realized what was happening, and the color drained from his face.

“NO!” he screamed, and scrambling to his feet, he lurched across the room and frantically tried the handle of the bathroom door. But the locked door remained firmly closed, and with a cry of frustration, he repeatedly slammed his palm against the wood. “Tommy, don’t! _DON’T!”_

The piercing _weee-ooo-weee-ooo_ of the approaching ambulance could be heard in the distance, the sound growing steadily louder, and overcome with emotion, Booker slid to the floor with a sob. For the briefest of moments, he had thought everything would be okay, but the reality was, he had failed his friend yet again. If he’d fought through the dizziness and remained conscious, he could have calmly convinced Tom to go to the hospital instead of trying to trick him. He’d underestimated Tom’s gullibility, and he had paid the ultimate price. The DNA evidence was gone, and there was nothing left to link the seven men to the rape except his and Horshack’s witness account and the video. But the video was of no use because he knew Tom well enough to know even if he tracked down the _Keymaster,_ the young officer would never give permission to use the tape in court. Once again he felt the weight of his guilt pushing down on him and his misery intensified. He was a failure as a cop _and_ a friend, and because of him, the seven Pi Taus would never be brought to justice.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed up the corridor and wiping the tears from his eyes, he stared expectantly at the open door. Moments later, two EMTs walked in. The elder of the two—a woman in her forties—squatted down next to him and smiled tenderly. “I’m Katie. What’s your name, honey?”

The knowledge he was about to betray the man he loved weighed heavy on Booker’s heart, but once he started talking, his words tumbled from his lips in a frenzied rush. “My name’s Officer Dennis Booker. I was undercover with my partner Officer Hanson, and he was… shit… he was gang raped at a frat house. I tried to stop him from showering, but I passed out, and he’s locked himself in the bathroom…”

“Whoa,” the woman reassured, her gloved hand resting on Booker’s thigh, “First things first. “Are you injured?”

Unconcerned about his own welfare, Booker shook his head, the motion causing another bout of dizziness. “I’m fine,” he gulped, and closing his eyes, he waited for his head to stop spinning before speaking again. “But Tom’s not. Please, you’ve got to help him! He’s bleeding, and he’s in shock and—”

“We _will_ help your friend,” Katie interrupted in a firm voice. “But first I need to assess you. You said you passed out. How long were you unconscious?”

Booker ran a trembling hand over his mouth. “Not long, a couple of seconds maybe. They hit me on the head with something. I thought I was okay, but…” 

His voice trailed off and fresh tears clung to his long lashes. “I should have saved h-him,” he whispered, the last word catching in his throat. “Why didn’t I _save_ him?”

Katie Robinson detected more than just remorse in Booker’s voice, and she wondered if the two men were romantically involved. There was a raw passion that lit up Dennis’ eyes when he spoke about his partner, and that was something she rarely saw between two men unless their relationship was more than just platonic. Not that it was any of her business, but it helped to know the fundamentals, after all, it could well be a domestic violence situation, given the fact the young officer was only partially dressed. But her sixth sense told her this was not the case with Dennis and Tom. Whatever their relationship, it was clear Dennis had deep feelings for his fellow officer, and she doubted he would do anything to intentionally hurt him.

Instead of answering Booker’s question, Katie gently probed the wound on the back of his head. Satisfied it did not require stitching, she took a penlight out of her bag and performed a pupillary response and extraocular movement exam. “Do you have any double vision,” she asked.

The steady thrum of the shower continued to sound from behind the door, torturing Booker with images of Tom’s naked, ravaged body, and he could feel his frustration mounting. “I said I’m fine!” he snapped, and using the wall as support, he pulled away from Katie’s hold and struggled defiantly to his feet. 

With a sigh, Katie addressed the male EMT. “If the rape victim is as traumatized as his partner says, I think we’re going to have to break down the door.”

Jackson Frasier nodded, his light blue eyes flashing with a nervousness born from inexperience. He had only been on the job three weeks, and every call-out had him questioning his knowledge. This was his first rape case, and adrenaline coursed through his body, making him hyper-alert. He had no idea what he would see when they broke down the door, but he knew enough to know it would be confronting, and a shiver of excitement ran down his spine. This was what he lived for; the adrenaline rush coupled with the nervous anticipation. It was like a drug, only far more addictive because every high was a new experience.

Before either EMT could react, Booker placed his palms against the smooth wood of the bathroom door and leaning in close, he spoke in a loud but gentle voice. “Tommy, it’s Dennis. You need to open the door. If you don’t, I’m breaking it down.”

If Tom heard, he did not acknowledge his friend’s statement and turning around, Booker addressed the EMTs, an unmistakable look of determination shining in his dark eyes. “I’ll kick the door in, but give me a minute to calm him before you enter, okay?”

“You’re injured,” Katie pointed out. “Maybe we should call the police and—”

“ _I’M_ THE POLICE!” Dennis yelled. "AND HE NEEDS MEDICAL ATTENTION _NOW,_ SO I'M KICKING THE FUCKING DOOR IN! GOT IT?"

Jackson cast a worried glance at Katie, but the experienced EMT just shrugged her shoulders and took a step back. “Okay, Dennis, but be careful.”

Booker wiped the sweat from his brow, and grasping hold of the door jamb, he raised his right leg and kicked the door. Pain jolted through his bare foot, and a grimace curled his lip. But he refused to give up and lifting his leg again, he slammed his foot against the wooden paneling. 

The door swung open with such force, it smashed back against the wall, cracking several mosaic tiles. A blast of steam hit Booker in the face. The high humidity in the room had raised the ambient temperature, and the suffocating conditions made it difficult for him to see or breathe. It took a moment for the vapor to waft out through the open door, but eventually the room cleared, exposing the heartbreaking scene within. 

The shower curtain was gathered at the end of the railing, the open cubicle revealing Tom’s naked form crouched on the floor of the shower. Hot water streamed over his quivering body, and his wet hair stuck to his face, framing the chiseled contours of his cheeks. The heat of the water had mottled his flesh a deep shade of pink, adding to the surrealism of the situation. But it was the ribbons of red swirling around his feet—a sure sign he was still bleeding heavily from his injuries—that disturbed Booker the most. Time stood still, the shower's steady thrum the only sound echoing throughout the bathroom. But when Tom lifted his head and gazed up at Booker with wild, panicked eyes, the dark-haired officer sprang into action, and rushing forward, he dropped to his knees and pulled his friend into his arms.

“There’s so much blood,” Tom choked, his tears disappearing amongst the rivulets of water flowing down his cheeks. “Oh God, Dennis, there’s so much blood!”

“It’s okay, baby,” Booker murmured, the endearment tumbling unchecked from between his lips. “I promise you, everything’s gonna be okay.”

Moved by the genuine display of affection, Katie stepped into the small bathroom and reaching into the cubicle, she turned off the faucets. Being careful not to make any sudden movements, she squatted down next to the two young officers and gave what she hoped was a comforting smile. “Hi, Tom, my name’s Katie, and this is my partner Jackson. I think it would be best if you let us take you to the hospital.”

Tom peeked out from beneath the protection of Booker’s muscular arm, his long, dark lashes clumped into jagged spikes. He hesitated for a moment before replying in a barely audible voice. “O-Okay.”

The tension in Booker’s muscles slowly eased, and he exhaled a heavy sigh. It had been a hell of a battle, but his perseverance had paid off, and Hanson would finally receive the treatment he needed. While he knew it was only the beginning of what was sure to be a very long and difficult journey, he had no idea how dramatically his own life was about to change, and it would all be because of Tom.


	15. Don't Shoot the Messenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: The shower curtain was gathered at the end of the railing, the open cubicle revealing Tom’s naked form crouched on the floor of the shower. Hot water streamed over his quivering body, and his wet hair stuck to his face, framing the chiseled contours of his cheeks. The heat of the water had mottled his flesh a deep shade of pink, adding to the surrealism of the situation. But it was the ribbons of red swirling around his feet—a sure sign he was still bleeding heavily from his injuries—that disturbed Booker the most. Time stood still, the shower's steady thrum the only sound echoing throughout the bathroom. But when Tom lifted his head and gazed up at Booker with wild, panicked eyes, the dark-haired officer sprang into action, and rushing forward, he dropped to his knees and pulled his friend into his arms._
> 
> _“There’s so much blood,” Tom choked, his tears disappearing amongst the rivulets of water flowing down his cheeks. “Oh God, Dennis, there’s so much blood!”_
> 
> _“It’s okay, baby,” Booker murmured, the endearment tumbling unchecked from between his lips. “I promise you, everything’s gonna be okay.”_
> 
> _Moved by the genuine display of affection, Katie stepped into the small bathroom and reaching into the cubicle, she turned off the faucets. Being careful not to make any sudden movements, she squatted down next to the two young officers and gave what she hoped was a comforting smile. “Hi, Tom, my name’s Katie, and this is my partner Jackson. I think it would be best if you let us take you to the hospital.”_
> 
> _Tom peeked out from beneath the protection of Booker’s muscular arm, his long, dark lashes clumped into jagged spikes. He hesitated for a moment before replying in a barely audible voice. “O-Okay.”_
> 
> _The tension in Booker’s muscles slowly eased, and he exhaled a heavy sigh. It had been a hell of a battle, but his perseverance had paid off, and Hanson would finally receive the treatment he needed. While he knew it was only the beginning of what was sure to be a very long and difficult journey, he had no idea how dramatically his own life was about to change, and it would all be because of Tom._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35159665653/in/dateposted-public/)

A cacophony of screams, wails, and the stomach-churning rumblings of uncontrolled bodily functions filled St. Andrew's ER. A young child’s incessant crying sounded from the curtained cubicle to Booker’s right, the piercing shrieks jangling his nerves. Paroxysmal coughing assaulted him from the left, and he instinctively placed a shaky hand over his nose and mouth, shielding himself from the exposed germs floating unseen through the contaminated atmosphere. Rancid odors hung heavily in the air; the foul smells mingling with the faint scent of disinfectant, and he longed to make his escape. He hated being in proximity to the sick and dying, not just because hospitals were a breeding ground for all manner of diseases, but because they reminded him of his mortality and the fragility of life. Although he lived an existence fraught with danger, at twenty-three, he mostly felt bulletproof. However, there were times when the haunting reality of his ephemerality and vulnerability confronted him head on. Unfortunately, living to a ripe old age was not a guarantee. Life could be fleeting, especially when you were a cop, and he had caught a glimpse of eternal darkness on more than one occasion. But generally, he tried not to dwell on it. He enjoyed his job too much, and the thought of trading it in for a peaceful, safe existence was not an option; not now, not ever. His philosophy was simple; once a cop, always a cop.

With a heavy sigh, he climbed from the narrow gurney and peeked out of the screened cubicle. An hour had passed since the doctor (who with his youthful looks did a passable impression of _Doogie Howser)_ had assessed him, and he began to wonder if the young intern had completely forgotten he was there. But just as he was about to take matters into his own hands and go in search of Tom, the medic appeared from between the folds of the blue curtained cubicle next to him. 

“Officer Booker,” the doctor greeted in a voice tinged with weariness. “I was just coming to see you. How are—”

“Is Tom okay?” Booker asked abruptly. Fatigue and worry had put him in a churlish mood, and he had no time for pleasantries. What was foremost on his mind was Tom’s welfare; everything else was secondary.

Doctor Daniel Morris motioned toward the cubicle. “Why don’t we take a seat so we can discuss—”

“I DON’T WANT TO TAKE A SEAT!” Booker yelled, his patience now wearing thin. “I’VE SAT FOR THE LAST TWO FUCKING HOURS AND NOW I WANT SOME ANSWERS. IS… TOM… O- _KAY?”_

Unaffected by the young officer’s outburst, Daniel’s countenance remained composed. “He’s under the care of a specialist doctor who is conducting a thorough examination. That’s all I can disclose to you right now.”

Overcome with exhaustion and frustration, Booker closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was a hothead by nature, but he knew it occasionally worked against him. If he had any chance of seeing Tom, he needed to play the game because ultimately, the doctors had all the power.

After taking a deep, calming breath, he opened his eyes and gave the young man an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. It’s just… I was there; I _saw_ what they did to him and… Shit! He’s my friend; I just want to know if he’s okay.”

Moved by Booker’s honest admission, Morris laid a comforting hand on his arm. “Officer Hanson is in good hands. Let us do our job and then, if Tom’s up to it, you can see him. Okay?”

Booker recognized the futility in any further argument and with sagging shoulders, he exhaled a dejected sigh. There was only one thing left for him to do and he could not put it off any longer. The moment he had been dreading had arrived, and wiping a hand over his tired eyes, he spoke in a flat voice. “I need to make a call.”

**

**Forty minutes later**

Booker shifted uncomfortably, the hard plastic chair digging into his side. His right leg jiggled nervously as he continued his visual scan of the ER’s main doorway, waiting for the hurricane he knew was about to blow in. He still wasn’t sure what he would say; he had revealed virtually nothing during his brief phone conversation. But he knew he could not stall forever; his captain would demand answers, and there was nowhere to hide.

Penhall’s loud voice alerted Booker to his presence long before he entered the room. “I DON’T CARE, COACH! IF HE’S DONE ANYTHING TO HURT TOM, I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM!”

In response, Booker rose to his feet and addressed the two men as they approached, his expression strained. “I—”

Without waiting for an explanation, Penhall drew back his fist and punched Booker square in the mouth. A collective gasp sounded around the busy ER as the dark-haired officer staggered backward, the force of his weight knocking over several of the brightly colored chairs. However, he just managed to stay on his feet and after recovering his balance, he wiped a hand over his bloody lip, his expression furious. “What the hell is your _problem?”_

Penhall took a threatening step forward, his dark eyes flashing dangerously, but Fuller quickly intervened. “Doug,” he cautioned. “Let the man speak.”

The two young officers remained face-to-face, nostrils flaring, their eyes narrowed with distrust. With his pride wounded, Booker stood with hands clenched, ready to throw the next punch if necessary. But surprisingly, after several seconds of macho muscle-flexing, Penhall’s shoulders slumped, and he took a step back. “Just tell me he’s okay,” he appealed softly, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Unable to meet Doug’s impassioned stare, Booker lowered his gaze to the scuffed linoleum floor. “He’s with the doctor, but they—”

“Let’s find somewhere private to talk,” Fuller suggested, his eyes focusing on Booker. “You have plenty of explaining to do.” 

The three men walked over to a row of vacant seats at the back of the room and sat down. From the grave expression on his commander’s face, Dennis knew he was in serious trouble, and he kept his gaze firmly fixed to the floor, a sheepish blush coloring his cheeks. This was the moment he had been dreading, the moment when he was about to defy his captain by boldly refusing to explain what had happened. But he had no choice; Tom had made it perfectly clear he did not want anyone to know about the rape. Through necessity, he had broken his friend’s trust once by tricking him into calling the paramedics, but he would be damned if he would betray him again.

Penhall opened his mouth to speak, but Fuller beat him to the punch. “Tell me what his injuries are.”

The pinkish hue coloring Booker’s cheeks deepened, flaming his tanned skin bright red. With a regretful sigh, he leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees and held his aching head in his hands. There was no way around it, the shit was about to hit the fan, and all he could do was prepare himself for the aftermath. “I can’t.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T?” Penhall exploded, the resonance of his voice rising to a yell. “OF COURSE YOU CAN! YOU JUST OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND SAY THE FUCKING WORDS!”

Booker’s head shook slowly back and forth. “Please don't ask me again, Cap'n,” he implored softly. “I can't keep betraying Tom. I can’t… I just can’t.”

A deep frown marred Penhall’s handsome features. “You betrayed Tommy? What the hell did you do to him, you sonofabitch?”

“I didn’t do any—” Booker started to protest, but the last word caught painfully in his throat, and the air suddenly rushed from his lungs, leaving him struggling for breath. His words were a lie because he had done something, and it was so abhorrent, he wondered if he would ever be able to live with himself. He had sexually abused a defenseless man, and even though his heart told him he hadn’t had a choice, it was still a bitter pill to swallow.

When a gentle hand gripped his shoulder, he instinctively jerked away. He wasn’t seeking comfort, all he yearned was the knowledge Tom was all right. Nothing mattered except Hanson’s well-being, and even the unwelcome thought of losing the friendship he had coveted for so long paled into insignificance. As painful as it would be, he could live without Tom in his life, but he knew he would never forgive himself if the young officer did not recover from the assault. 

Although Booker’s distress was obvious, as a commanding officer, Fuller was not about to let the matter drop. With one of his officers injured, he needed to know all the facts before he reported the incident to the Commissioner. “I’m not interested in your perceived obligation to Hanson,” he stated in a cool voice. “I want to know what happened, and I want to know—”

“Doctor Morris!” Booker exclaimed, and ignoring Fuller, he leaped from his chair and rushed over to the intern. “Is he okay? Can I see him?”

Daniel ran his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “He’s resting comfortably, but I’m afraid the visit will have to wait. Tom’s requested privacy at this time.”

Not about to let the doctor walk away without gaining some answers, Fuller rose to his feet. “I’m Captain Fuller, Hanson’s commanding officer. What is the nature of his injury?”

Surprised by the question, Morris’ gaze flitted over to Booker before returning to Fuller. He had expected Dennis to disclose the day’s events to his captain, but it was obvious he was protecting his friend, and he understood why. After speaking to Tom, he knew the young officer was adamant about _not_ pressing charges, and therefore, in the eyes of the hospital, it was not a police matter. His only priority was to his patient, and if Tom did not want people knowing about his rape, then he certainly wasn’t going to disclose the information.

A shiver of unease ran down his spine, and he nervously ran his tongue over his lips. He’d had dealings with overbearing police before, and after a thirty-six-hour shift, he was in no mood for a confrontation. “I’m sorry,” he replied with a faint smile. “I’m not at liberty to discuss Officer Hanson’s medical condition with you.”

“Listen,” Fuller barked, a thunderous expression clouding his face. “I want to know what—”

“And I said no,” Morris shot back with a sudden confidence belying his young age. “Come back tomorrow, and if Tom wants to discuss what happened, you can get the story directly from him. But I’m warning you, if he _doesn’t_ want to speak about it you’d better not pressure him because if you upset him in any way, they’ll be consequences. Understood?”

Aggravated, yet mildly impressed by the young doctor’s audacious statement, Fuller narrowed his eyes. But he knew he was fighting a losing battle, and so, he decided not to interrogate the doctor further. “We’ll be back in the morning,” he announced stiffly, and without waiting for Penhall, he stormed from the ER.

A smug smile twitched at Morris’ lips, but when he caught sight of Booker’s worried expression, his professionalism returned. “I’ll let Tom know you were asking after him,” he promised, the corners of his eyes crinkling with kindness.

Booker managed a half-hearted smile in return, and avoiding Penhall’s confused gaze, he walked out the door.

**

Tom lay on his side staring out at the blackness framed within the large paned window of his hospital room. Traffic noise filtered up from the street below, reminding him there was still a functioning world outside where people were going about their business, oblivious to the pain of those trapped inside a living nightmare. For over an hour, he had been subjected to humiliating examinations by a po-faced doctor who had prodded, poked and fondled him with detached intimacy. But throughout it all, Tom’s face had remained impassive. There was no dignity left to lose, no degradation he had not experienced, and although a fiery pain flared throughout his lower body, his mind remained numb. He expressed no tears or anger, all that remained was quiet acceptance. His life would continue on, but he would never be the same. He was hollow inside, the Tom Hanson of old no longer existed, and all that remained was an animated corpse incapable of emotion.

When a nurse’s raucous laugh sounded loudly from the corridor outside his room, he covered his ears, not wanting to experience her joy. His eyes remained focused on the hypnotizing blackness of the outside world, and he took comfort from the knowledge it would eventually wrap him in its icy tendrils, and safely cocoon him within his own growing insanity.


	16. Cause and Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I hope these last few chapters haven't been too boring. I think it is important not to gloss over the horror of Tom's rape, and to adequately explain his range of emotions as he attempts to come to terms with the assault.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom lay on his side staring out at the blackness framed within the large paned window of his hospital room. Traffic noise filtered up from the street below, reminding him there was still a functioning world outside where people were going about their business, oblivious to the pain of those trapped inside a living nightmare. For over an hour, he had been subjected to humiliating examinations by a po-faced doctor who had prodded, poked and fondled him with detached intimacy. But throughout it all, Tom’s face had remained impassive. There was no dignity left to lose, no degradation he had not experienced, and although a fiery pain flared throughout his lower body, his mind remained numb. He expressed no tears or anger, all that remained was quiet acceptance. His life would continue on, but he would never be the same. He was hollow inside, the Tom Hanson of old no longer existed, and all that remained was an animated corpse incapable of emotion._
> 
> _When a nurse’s raucous laugh sounded loudly from the corridor outside his room, he covered his ears, not wanting to experience her joy. His eyes remained focused on the hypnotizing blackness of the outside world, and he took comfort from the knowledge it would eventually wrap him in its icy tendrils, and safely cocoon him within his own growing insanity._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35836982431/in/dateposted-public/)

**Five days later**

Dark, arcus clouds rolled over the city, the fast-moving formations blocking out the sun, adding to the gloomy atmosphere of Tom’s room. Moments later, a blue-white flash of lightning split the leaden sky, followed by a low rumble of distant thunder. The impending storm perfectly fit Tom’s melancholy mood, and turning away from the window, he packed the last of his belongings in a carrier bag and placed it on the bed. 

The day after his admittance, Penhall had thoughtfully brought in clothing and toiletries, but Tom had stubbornly refused to see his friend, or anyone else, including Fuller. He was not ready to face the barrage of questions he knew they would ask, and because he hadn’t spoken to Booker since his arrival at the hospital, he had no idea how much they knew about his assault. If Dennis had divulged the whole story, Tom knew he could not cope with his friends’ pitying looks, and if the dark-haired officer had kept his silence, he did not know how to explain his hospitalization. It was easier to lock himself away, devoid of contact from those he loved, including his mother. He almost wished he could walk out of the hospital and start over somewhere new, where nobody knew him, but he understood the fragility of his state of mind well enough to know it would be a bad idea. Without at least the pretense of a normal life, it would be too easy to pick up a razor, slice the blade across his wrists, and allow his soul to leak slowly from his veins. Although he found himself increasingly drawn toward the darkness, there was still a small spark keeping the will to live burning deep inside him. But the flame was dimming with each passing day, and he wondered how long it would take before apathy extinguished it completely, and he would lose the ability to keep going.

With a sigh, he plucked his bandana from the top of the bag and lightly fingered the worn material. For some inexplicable reason, Penhall had brought him his ‘McQuaid’ clothes, and he pondered the significance of the gesture. That part of his life now seemed ridiculously trivial and juvenile in comparison to what he had endured at the hands of the Pi Taus, and he wondered if he would ever again find the strength to draw on the inner light needed to portray a teenager convincingly. He felt haggard, old beyond his years, and his outlook on life was jaded. In the space of an hour, seven men had violently stripped him not only of his dignity but his trust and altruism, leaving his heart shriveled and blackened. He was an emotionless automaton; he walked, talked, ate and did everything his doctor asked him. But through it all he felt nothing; no anguish, no rage, no malevolence. The emotional dial in his brain had switched to self-loathing, and that was the only emotion he now felt. He hated every aspect of his body, and he had taken to picking and scratching at the skin on his arms. Up until now he had managed to keep the sores hidden from the doctors and nurses. He knew how to play the game; show them what they wanted to see and they left you in peace. It was that simple. If they knew the full extent of his psychological breakdown, he was certain they would not have agreed to release him. But he kept his newfound compulsive eccentricities to himself. When he took his first scalding hot shower, he had scrubbed himself raw. However, none of the staff knew he now stood under the cascading water without ever washing himself because the idea of touching his naked flesh repulsed him. They had no clue he hung a towel over the mirror in the bathroom so he wouldn’t catch sight of his reflection. These were his dirty little secrets, and if he could keep up the charade for just a little while longer, he could make his escape and take refuge behind the locked door of his home. Then, and only then, would he feel safe enough to drop the act and withdraw into the silence of his unsound mind.

A soft knock pulled him from his thoughts, and lifting his head, he saw Nurse Amy James standing in the open doorway. He shoved the bandana back in his bag and flashed her a fake smile. This was the moment he had waited for; the moment when he could walk from the hospital and no longer feel compelled to pretend he was A-Okay. In other words, he would finally have the luxury to shut down.

Amy returned a strained smile, her expression one of concern. “Um, Tom. Officer Penhall’s here again and… well, he says he’s not leaving until he sees you.”

 _“Fuck!”_ Tom thought. _“I was so close to escaping, and now Penhall’s screwed it all up. Typical!”_ But outwardly, he remained a picture of calm. “Tell him I’ve already left,” he replied, his eyes not quite meeting Amy’s worried gaze. 

“Sorry,” Amy apologized, her cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. “I already let slip you were still here.”

Tom struggled to maintain his placid exterior, and his eyes blinked rapidly in confusion. “Why would you say that?” he asked, his voice rising in agitation. “You know I don't want to see anyone.”

“I-I know,” Amy stammered, mentally cursing herself for the innocent faux pas. “I thought he was your ride.”

Perspiration dampened Tom’s palms, and he nervously wiped them on the seat of his jeans. The belief he was going home had left him ill-prepared for a meeting with his best friend, and panic constricted his throat, the sudden deluge of emotion threatening to reduce him to tears. But abandoning his composure now would be counterproductive. He was so close to going home he could almost taste his freedom, and he was well aware the next few minutes would be crucial. If he broke down, there was a high probability his doctor would keep him in the hospital, but if he behaved _normally_ and received his friend with open arms, he could take flight and not have to deal with anyone ever again.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, he plastered a smile on his face. “I guess it’ll save me a cab fare. Send him in.”

Relieved by Tom’s reaction, Amy hurried from the room. Minutes later, Penhall walked in the door, a crushed box of chocolates held in one hand, a bunch of wilting flowers in the other. He stopped just inside the doorway, his dark, expressive eyes roving over Tom’s body, searching for any sign of injury. When he saw no visible cuts or bruises, his brow knitted into a frown of confusion. His friend appeared fine; a little pale and gaunt, but otherwise healthy. He had expected to walk in and see the young officer severely beaten, or at the very least, sporting a few abrasions. But there was nothing to indicate he had suffered an assault of any kind that would warrant him spending five days in the hospital. For Penhall, it was a perplexing situation, and not known for his tact he blurted out the first words that popped into his head. “You don’t look hurt.”

Although shocked by the statement, Tom managed to maintain an aura of calm, and arching his eyebrow, his mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “Don’t I?”

Puzzled by the acerbic tone of Tom’s question, Doug stepped forward and laid the chocolates and flowers on the bed while studying his friend’s pale face through narrowed eyes. “What’s going on, Tommy?”

Tom bared his teeth, his grin transforming into an amused sneer. “Nothing’s going on. As you can see, I’m fine.”

Concern furrowed Doug’s brow a little deeper. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Hanson. Something’s up, so why don’t you cut the act and tell me what happened.”

A cold shiver ran down the length of Tom’s spine. He needed to stay focused and not reveal the true nature of his injuries. Penhall was his best friend, they were as close as brothers, and if his partner looked hard enough, he would see straight through his calculated charade, setting in motion cataclysmic events.

It took a moment of meditative thought, but Tom finally managed to relax his features into a genuine smile. “I’m fine,” he reiterated softly. “It was just a bump on the head… you know, like Booker. I was disoriented, so they kept me in for tests. But the scans showed no damage, so…”

His voice trailed off, and he waited to see if Penhall had bought his lie. Several long, painful seconds passed before Doug’s face split into a relieved grin. “Jesus, Hanson,” he exhaled with a laugh. “You had me so fucking worried. Why did you say you didn’t want any visitors? We could have come and cheered you up. You know, a little poker, a dirty magazine or two. It must have been as boring as hell in here.”

Now he had his head together, Tom found it easy to fall into character and give Penhall the reassurance he so desperately sought. “Sorry,” he apologized, his trademark tilting grin once again gracing his lips. “I guess I wasn’t feeling myself. But they’re discharging me, so I must be okay, right?”

For a moment, Penhall appeared convinced, but his frown suddenly returned, and he gazed at Tom in confusion. “But if it was only a concussion, why did Booker go all secret squirrel and refuse to tell us anything? He got himself in a whole heap of trouble for nothing.”

“Booker's in trouble?” Tom asked. Although genuinely concerned about the dark-haired officer, by asking the question, he also managed to deflect the focus away from Doug’s initial query.

Penhall shrugged his shoulders. “Kinda. Fuller suspended him for a week.”

“Shit,” Tom muttered. By asking Dennis to keep his secret, he had never meant to cause him any undue conflict or distress. But it appeared his desperation had precipitated both, and in doing so, he had compromised the young officer’s integrity. It was just another thing to add to his growing discomfort. By not socializing, it was easy to keep his emotions pushed to the deepest recesses of his soul. But after only a few minutes with Doug, he found his despair returning, and he wished he could block out the world and all its painful vibrations forever.

Sensing Tom was somehow feeling guilty for Booker's foolhardiness, Doug turned the conversation back around. “Sooo, you're okay, right?” 

Distracted by his growing misery, Tom nodded his head. “Yeah, I'm—”

“THE MCQUAID BROTHERS ARE BACK... _HEH!”_ Penhall cried out, the ridiculous catchphrase pulling Tom from his reverie and making him cringe. The last thing on his mind was returning to Jump Street, and the thought of working undercover again had his heart racing in panic. Vulnerability had never been a part of his nature, but all that changed the moment a Pi Tau snapped the handcuffs around his wrists. He now felt like a target, a sitting duck, and he wondered if he would ever feel comfortable around people again. It was an agonizing thought and for a fraction of a second, he seriously considered giving in to the darkness that constantly threatened to claim his damaged mind.

Unaware of his friend’s inner turmoil, Penhall pulled him into a bear hug and squeezed him tight. “I missed you, buddy.”

With his body constricted, Tom could feel his hysteria rising. He had become so adept at inhibiting his emotions, the unexpected anxiety threatened to engulf him, and his only escape was to jerk violently free from Penhall’s hold. 

Hurt immediately filled Doug’s soft brown eyes, and he took a step back. “Sorry,” the officer mumbled, his hand rubbing furiously at his chin. “I just—”

“Can you drive me home?” Tom interrupted. He was struggling to keep up the deception, and he longed for the solitude of his apartment… and a drink. He was now in desperate need of a drink.

Surprised by Hanson’s sudden change in attitude, Penhall managed a small smile. “Sure, Tommy, I’d be happy—”

“Thanks,” Tom interjected quickly, and ignoring the flowers and chocolates, he picked up his bag and headed out the door.


	17. Truth and Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I'm hoping to post another chapter before the holiday madness takes hold. But just in case I don't, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you and your families a wonderful festive season.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Sensing Tom was somehow feeling guilty for Booker's foolhardiness, Doug turned the conversation back around. “Sooo, you're okay, right?”_
> 
> _Distracted by his growing misery, Tom nodded his head. “Yeah, I'm—”_
> 
> _“THE MCQUAID BROTHERS ARE BACK... HEH!” Penhall cried out, the ridiculous catchphrase pulling Tom from his reverie and making him cringe. The last thing on his mind was returning to Jump Street, and the thought of working undercover again had his heart racing in panic. Vulnerability had never been a part of his nature, but all that changed the moment a Pi Tau snapped the handcuffs around his wrists. He now felt like a target, a sitting duck, and he wondered if he would ever feel comfortable around people again. It was an agonizing thought and for a fraction of a second, he seriously considered giving in to the darkness that constantly threatened to claim his damaged mind._
> 
> _Unaware of his friend’s inner turmoil, Penhall pulled him into a bear hug and squeezed him tight. “I missed you, buddy.”_
> 
> _With his body constricted, Tom could feel his hysteria rising. He had become so adept at inhibiting his emotions, the unexpected anxiety threatened to engulf him, and his only escape was to jerk violently free from Penhall’s hold._
> 
> _Hurt immediately filled Doug’s soft brown eyes, and he took a step back. “Sorry,” the officer mumbled, his hand rubbing furiously at his chin. “I just—”_
> 
> _“Can you drive me home?” Tom interrupted. He was struggling to keep up the deception, and he longed for the solitude of his apartment… and a drink. He was now in desperate need of a drink._
> 
> _Surprised by Hanson’s sudden change in attitude, Penhall managed a small smile. “Sure, Tommy, I’d be happy—”_
> 
> _“Thanks,” Tom interjected quickly, and ignoring the flowers and chocolates, he picked up his bag and headed out the door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35969732955/in/dateposted-public/)

**Later that night**

Outside, night settled over the city. Sounds rose up from the street, a cacophonic mixture of shouts, car horns, and yapping dogs, all jarring Tom’s nerves. In the distance, a siren drowned out the noise, its ominous wail foretelling someone’s tragedy, and a shiver ran down the young officer’s spine. Now he was home alone, he wished he was back in the safe confines of the hospital, watching TV and listening to the comforting squeak of the nurses’ soft-soled shoes as they carried out their duties. He had always viewed his home as his castle, a place to relax and unwind after a long day at work. But since arriving back, he felt on edge, and he had found it difficult to settle down. In an attempt to calm himself, he had even taken a shower, and for the first time in almost a week, he had washed properly. The sensation of his fingers trailing over his wet, soapy flesh had sickened him to the pit of his stomach, but it was a necessary evil. Despite copious amounts of deodorant, he was starting to give off a stale odor, and he had noticed Doug wrinkling his nose on several occasions during their brief liaison. If he wanted to give the illusion of wellness, he had to make some sacrifices, and bathing was one of them. He viewed it as a necessary evil because if he appeared okay on the outside, no one would guess his world was crumbling in around him.

With the comedic banality of _‘Cheers’_ grating on his already frazzled nerves, Tom walked away from the window and flopping down on the sofa, he picked up the remote and muted the TV. Despite his best efforts, he remained tense, his muscles bunching in his upper back, and he rolled his shoulders to relieve the strain. Although his apartment was secure, a growing feeling of vulnerability crawled over his skin, and pushing up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he anxiously picked at a scab on his arm. He watched in morbid fascination as blood bubbled to the surface. It was only 9.15 p.m. and the hours stretched endlessly out before him. With only his paranoid, self-loathing mind and the TV for company, he knew it would be a long, lonely night.

An unexpected knock at the door made him jump, and all his fears came to the fore, causing his heart rate to quicken. He rose slowly to his feet and picking up his Smith and Wesson from the coffee table, he pointed it at the door. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and beads of perspiration prickled his skin. He was armed and ready to shoot any motherfucker who threatened his safety, regardless of the consequences because he would be damned if he would let anyone take advantage of him again. This time, he would defend himself, or die trying.

When a second, more persistent knock rattled his door, he hurriedly wiped the sweat from his face and widening his stance, he steadied his aim with both hands, his right index finger resting on the gun's trigger. But seconds later, a familiar voice called out his name, and he lowered his arms, a relieved breath exhaling from between his lips. He hesitated for a moment before tossing the gun onto the couch, and wiping a shaky hand over his mouth, he walked across the room and unlocked the door.

Booker stood in the hallway, his expression a mixture of nervousness and concern. “Hey,” the dark-haired officer greeted lamely.

Tom remained silent, his freshly washed hair falling over his face, disguising the dysphoria shining from his eyes. Booker glanced over his friend’s shoulder at the unlit apartment. Only a small amount of light emanated from the television, the flickering of the screen casting shadows on the walls. Once again he thought how cold and cheerless the room looked, but this time, it wasn’t his mood reflecting outward. The apartment definitely had a bereft feel about it, and he wondered if it was Tom infecting the atmosphere, sucking the life from the air, or if it was just his overactive imagination.

Unsure how to proceed, he held out a backpack, a nervous smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Here’s your stuff, and um, I hope you don’t mind, but I hot-wired your Mustang; it’s parked outside.”

Ignoring the proffered bag, Tom turned away and walked over to the window, resuming his observations without comment. The door remained open, and taking it as an invitation, Booker stepped inside and placed the bag on the floor. For several moments, he stood silently watching Tom stare out the window. But he suddenly realized it wasn't the busy street below Tom was fixated on; it was his faint reflection mirrored in the glass.

“Tom?”

The worried utterance of his name barely registered in Tom’s brain. Since arriving home, he had experienced a mind flip, and he now found himself obsessed with the ghostly, transparent image shimmering in the window. He desperately sought answers from the mute figure, questions he could not answer himself. Who was he? What did he feel? Would he survive? But the more he fixated on the dull, lifeless eyes of the faint echo staring back at him, the more he found himself drawn into its soulless existence. He was a nowhere man, stripped of his identity, and forever cursed to wander the earth detached and alone.

“Tommy,” Booker murmured again, a shiver of apprehension bringing goosebumps to the flesh of his arms.

“This is all I am now,” Tom whispered without turning around, his voice choking with emotion. “A shadowy reflection standing on the outside of my life looking in. They’ve taken everything from me, Dennis. Everything. I’m nothing, and you have no idea how much I fucking hate myself right now because I let it happen. I didn’t fight hard enough, and I let it happen. Why did I let it happen?”

Shocked by Tom’s words, Booker took several steps forward, but he stopped several feet away, afraid his presence might do more harm than good. “You didn't _let_ them, Tom. You were handcuffed and defenseless. It’s _my_ fault; I should have protected you.”

Tom turned around and stared at Booker with a solemn expression before slowly shaking his head. “I don’t blame you, Dennis. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I know it wasn’t your fault, it’s just…” His voice lowered to a whisper, and he clenched his hands into fists, an embarrassed flush staining his pale cheeks. “They have the tape... the tape that shows you _doing_ that to me. What if it gets out? How can I ever heal knowing people are watching it?”

A deep frown creased Booker’s brow. It appeared Tom was more concerned about the oral sex than his rape, and the realization immediately put the dark-haired officer on the defensive. A slow, boiling rage churned inside him, and throwing back his shoulders, he glared at his friend. “Well gee, _Hanson,_ I’m sorry if preventing you from having your brains blown out is distressing to you. Maybe next time I’ll just leave you there to die.”

Confusion widened Tom’s dark eyes. “W-What?”

“You heard me,” Booker snapped, his pleasant features twisting into an angry sneer. “You’re more disgusted because I was forced to suck you off than you are having seven guys stick their dicks up your ass. But if I remember correctly, you got off on it. You _came_ in my fucking mouth, you hypocritical asshole!”

Without warning, Tom lashed out, his hand sweeping photos and knick-knacks off a nearby shelf. “I KNOW THAT!” he screamed hysterically, his internal distress bubbling forth in a tsunami of pent-up grief. “I FUCKING _KNOW_ THAT! YOU MADE ME HORNY! _THEY_ MADE ME HORNY! HOW CAN I BLAME THEM WHEN I FUCKING GOT OFF ON IT? I’M A SICK PERVERTED FREAK! I FUCKING HATE MYSELF! DO YOU HEAR ME? I HATE _MYSELF!”_

Before Booker could react, Tom turned and with an anguished yell, he slammed his fist into the wall. Pain flared in his knuckles and choking on a sob, he collapsed to the floor. His misery was insurmountable, and drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around his legs and wept uncontrollably.

Guilt replaced Booker’s anger and dropping to his knees, his hand hovered over Tom’s head before falling uselessly to his side. Once again, pride and anger had triumphed over humility and calmness, and he instantly regretted his outburst. Instead of offering Tom comfort, he had inflamed his friend’s self-condemnation by adding fuel to an already raging fire. He had put his ego ahead of Tom’s welfare, and he now wished he had kept his fat mouth shut. 

Unable to remain passive for any longer, he rested his hand on Tom’s head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his fingers running through his friend’s hair. “I don’t know why I said that. You’ve nothing to be ashamed about, Tommy. Sometimes our bodies betray us, and your reaction is a common one in male rape victims.”

Tom slowly lifted his head and gazed at Booker through teary eyes. “Is it?” he hiccupped, his mind desperate to believe. “Because I feel like a whore.”

Shuffling forward on his knees, Booker wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulled him protectively against his chest. He lowered his head and breathed in the sweet aroma of Tom's shampoo, committing the scent to memory before speaking. “Trust me, you’re not the first man to have a physical reaction to unwanted sexual contact. You’re not a whore, Tommy, you’re just a red-blooded male.”

After analyzing Booker’s words for several minutes, Tom lifted his head, his eyes filled with concern. “Doug said Fuller suspended you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shhh,” Booker soothed gently, “it’s not your fault. Anyway, it’s given me some much-needed time off.”

Although unconvinced, Tom did not have the energy to argue the point, and narrowing his eyes, he gazed at the cut on Booker’s lower lip. “Who hit you?”

A fleeting grin passed over Booker’s face as he lightly fingered the wound. “Penhall’s got quite a right hook,” he commented softly. “I guess he’s a _hit first ask questions later_ kinda guy.”

“Maybe he thought you’d hurt me,” Tom explained quietly. “He’s kinda protective like that.”

Booker nodded, and taking hold of Tom’s hand, he carefully inspected his bloody knuckles before asking the question foremost on his mind. “Are you okay? I mean… are your injuries… serious?”

Tom immediately understood it wasn’t his bruised hand he was referring to, and his cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. “There's no permanent damage,” he mumbled. “It's just gonna take time to heal.”

“But you _will_ heal?” Booker asked worriedly.

Tom lowered his gaze to the floor. “Physically, yes,” he replied softly. “But mentally? I dunno. I can’t stop thinking about that tape, and I imagine them watching it, laughing at...” His voice faltered, and his eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “How can I ever be whole again when I know they’re watching it?” he whispered. “I won’t rest until I know that tape’s destroyed.”

When Booker remained silent, Tom let out a weary sigh. “I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered, his eyes fluttering closed. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

Taking the statement as a hint to leave, Booker pulled away and rose slowly to his feet. “I should go,” he stated with a small smile. “Get some rest and—”

“Don’t leave,” Tom interrupted hurriedly. He had thought he wanted to be alone, but now the prospect of spending the night on his own terrified him.

Taken aback by the request, Booker rubbed an awkward hand over the back of his neck. “Um, okay. I guess I could sleep on the couch.”

A shy smile played over Tom’s lips. “The bed’s big enough for the two of us… I mean, if you don’t mind sharing.”

They were the words that had infiltrated Booker’s dreams since first laying eyes on Tom, and he suppressed a moan. The idea of sharing a bed was a fantasy come true, but he knew he needed to be careful. Any wrong move could ruin their fragile friendship forever.

“Sure,” he replied brightly. “Just try not to snore, okay?”

“I don’t snore,” Tom refuted crossly, before suddenly remembering they had shared a room, and his eyes grew wide with surprise. “Do I?”

A cheeky grin curved Booker’s lips. “Only a little.”

For the first time in days, a genuine smile lit up Tom’s face. “Then you have my permission to jab me in the ribs.”

Pleased Tom could find some humor in the situation, Booker’s grin widened. “Deal.”

Tom stood up and turning off the TV, he walked into his bedroom and switched on the bedside lamp. Booker followed, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. He purposely averted his eyes as his friend stripped down to boxers and tee shirt, before doing the same. Nerves had him feeling like an awkward teenager, and he waited for Tom to crawl under the covers before he climbed in beside him, making sure to keep his distance. When Tom switched off the light, he stared out into the inky blackness, his mind a flurry of emotion. As the minutes ticked by and Tom’s shallow breathing filled the room, an idea formed in his mind. He knew what he had to do, and with his plan now formulated, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	18. Tears after Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I think this will be the final chapter for 2015, unless of course I can sneak some time on my laptop during the holiday season ;) I'm not sure how long I will be on hiatus, but I will definitely be back by mid January.**
> 
> **Wishing you and your families love and light.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: A fleeting grin passed over Booker’s face as he lightly fingered the wound. “Penhall’s got quite a right hook,” he commented softly. “I guess he’s a hit first ask questions later kinda guy.”_
> 
> _“Maybe he thought you’d hurt me,” Tom explained quietly. “He’s kinda protective like that.”_
> 
> _Booker nodded, and taking hold of Tom’s hand, he carefully inspected his bloody knuckles before asking the question foremost on his mind. “Are you okay? I mean… are your injuries… serious?”_
> 
> _Tom immediately understood it wasn’t his bruised hand he was referring to, and his cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. “There's no permanent damage,” he mumbled. “It's just gonna take time to heal.”_
> 
> _“But you will heal?” Booker asked worriedly._
> 
> _Tom lowered his gaze to the floor. “Physically, yes,” he replied softly. “But mentally? I dunno. I can’t stop thinking about that tape, and I imagine them watching it, laughing at...” His voice faltered, and his eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “How can I ever be whole again when I know they’re watching it?” he whispered. “I won’t rest until I know that tape’s destroyed.”_
> 
> _When Booker remained silent, Tom let out a weary sigh. “I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered, his eyes fluttering closed. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”_
> 
> _Taking the statement as a hint to leave, Booker pulled away and rose slowly to his feet. “I should go,” he stated with a small smile. “Get some rest and—”_
> 
> _“Don’t leave,” Tom interrupted hurriedly. He had thought he wanted to be alone, but now the prospect of spending the night on his own terrified him._
> 
> _Taken aback by the request, Booker rubbed an awkward hand over the back of his neck. “Um, okay. I guess I could sleep on the couch.”_
> 
> _A shy smile played over Tom’s lips. “The bed’s big enough for the two of us… I mean, if you don’t mind sharing.”_
> 
> _They were the words that had infiltrated Booker’s dreams since first laying eyes on Tom, and he suppressed a moan. The idea of sharing a bed was a fantasy come true, but he knew he needed to be careful. Any wrong move could ruin their fragile friendship forever._
> 
> _“Sure,” he replied brightly. “Just try not to snore, okay?”_
> 
> _“I don’t snore,” Tom refuted crossly, before suddenly remembering they had shared a room, and his eyes grew wide with surprise. “Do I?”_
> 
> _A cheeky grin curved Booker’s lips. “Only a little.”_
> 
> _For the first time in days, a genuine smile lit up Tom’s face. “Then you have my permission to jab me in the ribs.”_
> 
> _Pleased Tom could find some humor in the situation, Booker’s grin widened. “Deal.”_
> 
> _Tom stood up and turning off the TV, he walked into his bedroom and switched on the bedside lamp. Booker followed, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. He purposely averted his eyes as his friend stripped down to boxers and tee shirt, before doing the same. Nerves had him feeling like an awkward teenager, and he waited for Tom to crawl under the covers before he climbed in beside him, making sure to keep his distance. When Tom switched off the light, he stared out into the inky blackness, his mind a flurry of emotion. As the minutes ticked by and Tom’s shallow breathing filled the room, an idea formed in his mind. He knew what he had to do, and with his plan now formulated, he closed his eyes and fell asleep._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35837024611/in/dateposted-public/)

Just after midnight, violent tremors rocked the bed, waking Booker from a deep sleep. A sliver of moonlight filtered through the ill-fitting curtains, the ethereal white glow adding to the young officer’s disorientation, and sitting up, his gaze immediately settled on the figure lying next to him. Soft moonbeams danced over Tom’s sleeping form, the faint shimmer emphasizing the terror on the young officer’s face. Although still asleep, Tom’s eyes were wide open, his mouth twisted into a silent scream. Perspiration soaked his tee shirt, the thin cotton material now plastered to his chest, but while his face remained frozen in a grotesque mask of terror, his hands swatted uselessly at whoever or whatever was attacking him in his dreams. Fascinated by the animated display playing out beside him, Booker watched for several moments while deciding what to do. It was obvious Tom had become trapped within his nightmare, his mind caught somewhere between non-REM sleep and consciousness, and although terrifying to witness, Booker was reluctant to shake him awake. Instead, he rolled over and switched on the lamp next to his side of the bed. 

Soft light illuminated the room, chasing away the haunting darkness, and sitting up, Booker stared down at Tom, willing him to wake up. But instead of focusing his attention on his friend’s face, his gaze locked on the dozens of bloody scabs peppering Tom’s arms, and his eyebrows knitted into a deep frown. The wounds appeared fresh, causing his heart to skip a beat. Tom’s psychological trauma had manifested into self-harm, a classic behavior often associated with self-hatred. The words _“I FUCKING HATE MYSELF! DO YOU HEAR ME? I HATE MYSELF!”_ echoed in Booker’s mind, and he rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

Whether it was the light emanating from the lamp or Booker’s softly spoken words, Tom’s panicked eyes suddenly gained focus and drawing in a loud raspy breath, he sat bolt upright. When he noticed Booker, he let out a yelp of surprise and throwing back the duvet, he scrambled from the bed, his arms wrapping protectively around his heaving chest. Shocked by the reaction, Booker started to speak, but his words caught in his throat when he noticed a crimson stain on the sheet covering the mattress.

Following Booker’s line of vision, Tom’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Oh, God,” he whispered, his expression mortified.

Booker quickly pulled himself together, and climbing from the bed, he slowly approached his friend, sympathy shining from his dark eyes. “It’s okay, Tom,” he murmured, his hand reaching out to the young officer. “You’re still heal—”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Tom yelled, and stumbling backward, he collided with the wall behind him.

Not wanting to alarm Hanson any more than he already had, Booker stopped and held up both hands. “Okay. Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Shame crumpled Tom's face, and a single tear trickled down his cheek. “I wish they’d killed me.”

Disconcerted by the revelation, Booker utilized his police training and drew on the small amount of experience he’d had with rape survivors. “I know it seems hopeless now, but you’re still recovering. Maybe talking to a psychol—”

“I’m not crazy,” Tom muttered with a sniff, his expression becoming defiant.

Booker acted out his frustration by raking his fingers through his hair. “I _know_ that! Jesus, Tom, I’m _not_ the fucking enemy; I’m trying to help you! Look at your arms, you’re hurting yourself and it scares the hell out of me. I care about you, Tommy, and I don’t want to see you descend into a delusional state of mind where self-harm is the only way you can cope with your emotions.”

Embarrassed by Booker’s observations, Tom attempted to hide the bloody scabs by covering the exposed flesh with his hands. “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he muttered, his lower lip pushing into a soft pout. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

“Tom, I’m just trying to help you,” Booker explained with a weary sigh. “Don’t push me away.”

Unable to bear the pity and concern in Booker’s eyes, Tom lowered his gaze to the floor. “If you want to help me, then leave. I want to be alone.” 

Surprised by the request, Booker took a step forward. “Tom, I don’t think that’s a good—”

“I SAID LEAVE!” Tom screamed, stamping his foot as his grief exploded into white-hot anger. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT!”

Pulling himself up to his full height, Booker stubbornly folded his arms across his chest, his gaze calmly scrutinizing Tom’s furious face. “No.”

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Tom hollered, his face turning red with frustration. “I FUCKING HATE YOU!”

Unperturbed by the insult, Booker shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. But you know what? I don’t really care ‘cause your welfare is more important to me than our friendship.”

Tom wiped his forearm across his face, brushing the glistening tears from his eyes. “Bullshit,” he spat, a cruel sneer curling his upper lip. “You’ve been trying to get into my pants since the first day you saw me. I bet watching those bastards rape me _really_ pissed you off because you wanted to be the one fucking me, isn’t that right, _DENNIS?”_

The caustic words penetrated Booker’s heart like a knife, and he struggled to maintain his composure. Sensing victory, Tom bent over and pulled a clean pair of boxers from the laundry basket sitting discarded on the floor. “I’m gonna take a shower. I want you gone by the time I’m finished.” And without waiting for an answer, he walked into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind him.

**

When Tom opened the bathroom door, the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, the pleasant scent wafting through the small apartment. He glanced around the bedroom, immediately noticing a fresh sheet had replaced the stained one, and a heavy scowl creased his forehead. Without bothering to dress, he secured his towel around his waist, and raking his fingers through his damp hair, he stormed into the living room. 

Booker sat on the couch watching a black and white horror movie, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. Shocked and a little disconcerted by his friend’s arrogance, Tom strode across the room and stood defiantly in front of the TV. “I told you to leave.”

An irritating smile passed over Booker’s lips and leaning to the right, he calmly continued to watch the movie. “Yeah, well, if I remember correctly, I said no, so…”

Frustration and anger bubbled up inside Tom, the churning mass of resentment releasing his inner child. His hands balled into tight fists, his knuckles flaring white, and with an anguished cry, he unfurled his exasperation. “Why won’t you leave... me... _ALONE?”_

Booker lifted his gaze and looked Tom straight in the eye, his expression tranquil but sincere. “Because I care.”

Defeated, Tom collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He was at a loss for words, unable to comprehend the complexity of Dennis’ feelings for him. The more he behaved like an asshole, the more the dark-haired officer stubbornly supported him. It was perplexing in its normality because for some strange, inexplicable reason, it felt _right_ to have Booker by his side during one of the most intimately painful and emotional times of his life. He couldn’t explain it; Booker had been his nemesis for so long, but he now realized sharing every humiliating aspect of his rape had actually been a blessing, not a curse. Doug was his best friend, yet the thought of him knowing about the violent assault had Tom cringing with embarrassment. It was easier sharing the experience with Booker because there were no expectations, no preconceived notions of reactions or levels of concern, and so far, his new friend had not let him down, despite his appallingly childish behavior. However, the realization added another level to the misery of his suffering, and much to his chagrin, he found himself once again succumbing to tears. 

Booker placed his coffee cup on the table and leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees and studied his friend’s bowed head. As difficult as it was not to leap forward and wrap his arms around Tom’s quivering shoulders, he remained seated, biding his time until the moment was right. Tom was a powder keg of emotion, and any unintentional wrongdoing could spark an eruption.

Minutes passed, and eventually, Tom’s grief subsided. He lifted his head, and with tears still glistening in his eyes, he offered Booker a wan smile. “I bet you wish you’d never met me,” he sniffed.

Amusement twinkled in Booker’s black eyes, and smiling cheekily, he attempted to lighten the mood. “Are you kidding? Having you in my life is a dream come true.”

Tom managed a small chuckle and wiping a stray tear from his cheek, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled a heavy sigh. “How am I gonna get through this?” he asked quietly.

Booker’s eyes filled with a dark intensity. “You don’t have to do it alone. I’m gonna do everything I can to make it right, okay?”

“How?” Tom asked simply. He was desperate to believe, but terrified of adding disappointment to the weight of his burdens.

With a knowing smile, Booker picked up his mug and drained the last of his coffee. Now more than ever, he knew he needed to act on his plan, but first, he needed to make sure Tom had a restful night’s sleep. “Just leave it to me,” he replied cryptically.

Too weary to quiz his friend any further, Tom stifled a yawn, and rising to his feet, he motioned toward the bedroom. “Coming?”

Although pleasantly surprised by the invitation, Booker shook his head. “That cup of coffee’s kinda got me wired. I think I’ll watch the end of the movie.”

With a nod of his head, Tom disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Booker to mull over the pros and cons of his plan.

**

Raucous laughter woke Booker from a light sleep, and groaning softly, he liberated the remote from its uncomfortable position beneath his left hip and switched off the TV. Sunlight streamed in through the window, signaling the start of a new day, and sitting up, he stretched his arms above his head and yawned loudly. He had no recollection of when he had fallen asleep; one minute he had been watching _The Wolf Man_ and the next, he had woken to _Good Morning America’s_ lively debate about dental hygiene. That he had slept so long surprised him, and his thoughts soon turned to Tom. Had the young officer slept through the night or had he once again been plagued with paralyzing nightmares? Suddenly, his decision not to accompany his friend back to the bedroom seemed like a bad one and jumping to his feet, he hurried across the room and pushed open the bedroom door.

Tom lay on top of the covers, his body in the freefall position—one leg bent toward his chest and his arms hugging his pillow. A rush of air expelled from between his pouting lips, the rhythmic _pfff_ bringing a smile to Booker’s face. With his mussed hair and flawless complexion, Tom was a vision of childlike innocence. However, the rust-colored stain on the seat of his boxers shattered the illusion into millions of razor-sharp pieces, each jagged shard capable of shredding through what remained of the young officer’s virtue. It was obvious Tom would never be the same man he had been a week ago, how could he be? Rape was a game changer, and once someone had violently stripped your liberties from you, there was no turning back, not ever.

Being careful not to wake his friend, Booker walked into the bathroom and closed the door. After relieving his bladder, he stared into the mottled mirror and studied his reflection. He was surprised at how tired he looked. The black smudges under his eyes and the paleness of his sallow skin were both testament to his lack of sleep over the last week. He had witnessed a heinous assault but only now were the effects beginning to show. However, he knew he needed to remain strong. He had to fight through the fatigue because he was about to go into battle, and if everything went to plan, he would come home triumphant and Tom would finally begin to heal.


	19. A Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Due to the emotional distress I am dealing with following the unexpected passing of my dear mum, "Beneath a Heart of Darkness" will only be updated when I feel the desire to write. Thanks for your understanding.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Previously: Raucous laughter woke Booker from a light sleep, and groaning softly, he liberated the remote from its uncomfortable position beneath his left hip and switched off the TV. Sunlight streamed in through the window, signaling the start of a new day, and sitting up, he stretched his arms above his head and yawned loudly. He had no recollection of when he had fallen asleep; one minute he had been watching The Wolf Man and the next, he had woken to Good Morning America’s lively debate about dental hygiene. That he had slept so long surprised him, and his thoughts soon turned to Tom. Had the young officer slept through the night or had he once again been plagued with paralyzing nightmares? Suddenly, his decision not to accompany his friend back to the bedroom seemed like a bad one and jumping to his feet, he hurried across the room and pushed open the bedroom door._
> 
> _Tom lay on top of the covers, his body in the freefall position—one leg bent toward his chest and his arms hugging his pillow. A rush of air expelled from between his pouting lips, the rhythmic pfff bringing a smile to Booker’s face. With his mussed hair and flawless complexion, Tom was a vision of childlike innocence. However, the rust-colored stain on the seat of his boxers shattered the illusion into millions of razor-sharp pieces, each jagged shard capable of shredding through what remained of the young officer’s virtue. It was obvious Tom would never be the same man he had been a week ago, how could he be? Rape was a game changer, and once someone had violently stripped your liberties from you, there was no turning back, not ever._
> 
> _Being careful not to wake his friend, Booker walked into the bathroom and closed the door. After relieving his bladder, he stared into the mottled mirror and studied his reflection. He was surprised at how tired he looked. The black smudges under his eyes and the paleness of his sallow skin were both testament to his lack of sleep over the last week. He had witnessed a heinous assault but only now were the effects beginning to show. However, he knew he needed to remain strong. He had to fight through the fatigue because he was about to go into battle, and if everything went to plan, he would come home triumphant and Tom would finally begin to heal._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35969967285/in/dateposted-public/)

Booker stood concealed behind a tree, eagerly watching the busy comings and goings of Holbrook College’s students and faculty. He had left Tom sleeping, a note propped next to the lamp on the bedside table explaining his absence and promising to return in a few hours. It was better his friend knew nothing of his mission, all it would do is drag up unwanted memories. He was perfectly capable of going it alone, and if he were successful, then hopefully, Tom would finally begin the long, slow road toward recovery.

A grin passed over his lips when he spotted his target, and checking the coast was clear from unwanted prying eyes, he stepped out from the shadows of the majestic elm. “Hey, Harold.”

Surprise registered on Horshack’s face, quickly followed by a look of panic, and grabbing Booker by the wrist, he pulled him back behind the tree. “What are you doing here?” he hissed, his eyes flitting anxiously from side to side. “Are you _trying_ to get me beaten to a bloody pulp?”

Booker’s expression turned serious. “Is someone threatening you?”

“Only every Pi Tau on campus,” Harold replied in a frightened whisper. “I never went back to the frat house after I helped you escape, and they didn’t take it well. Not only did I let you guys go, but I also refused to take part in the final initiation ceremony; something that has _never_ happened since the Pi Tau Fraternity was founded in 1847. I’m a liability because I’m not bound by the honor code, and I know what happened in that basement… I _know_ what they did to Harris.”

“Hanson,” Booker corrected softly, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his badge. “Don’t you remember Tom telling you his real name? We’re undercover cops, Harold. Tom’s last name is Hanson, not Harris and mine’s Booker.”

Horshack rubbed a trembling hand over his mouth. “Jesus,” he muttered against his fingers. “Do the Pi Taus know?”

A grim expression furrowed Booker’s brow. “I hope not, ‘cause if they do, I won't have the element of surprise on my side.”

“Surprise?” Harold queried in a hopeful voice, his eyes growing wide with excitement. “Does that mean you're gonna go after them and prosecute them?”

With a wry smile, Booker shook his head. “Not exactly. But if everything goes to plan, hopefully, I can give Tom his life back.”

**

After convincing Horshack to drive with him to a café twenty miles south of the campus, where they were sure to be safe from inquisitive eyes, Booker laid out his plan—or as much of it as he thought prudent. “I need the name of the Pi Tau Keymaster. You can get it for me, right?”

Shocked by the request, Harold’s coffee cup shook violently, spilling hot liquid over his fingers. With a yelp, he placed the cup back on the plastic checkered tablecloth and wiped his hand on the leg of his baggy jeans. “Why would you ask me that?” he exclaimed in a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper loud enough to be heard two tables away. “I _told_ you, I’m _not_ a Pi Tau, and even if I were, only an Active, who has paid his dues, knows that information.”

“Or a respected alumnus,” Booker replied with an engaging smile. “And you, Harold, happen to be related to not one, but two.”

As the meaning of Booker’s request became apparent, Horshack’s pale, freckled face turned several shades whiter. “You want me to ask my _father?”_ he gulped, the very idea sending a shiver of foreboding down his spine. “Are you crazy?”

Unperturbed by the young freshman’s reluctance, Booker ignored Harold’s last question. Instead, he continued to pressure the vulnerable student. “Or you could ask your grandfather, whichever you feel most comfortable talking to.”

When Horshack remained silent, Booker sensed he needed to up the ante, and tilting his head, his beseeching brown eyes glowed softly under the shadow of his long, dark lashes. “If you won’t do it for me, do it for Tom,” he murmured, laying heavy emphasis on the sadness in his voice. He felt like a complete bastard, but where Tom was concerned, he was prepared to stoop to the lowest levels of emotional manipulation to get a result.

The vision of Tom's terrified face still haunted Harold. Night and day, the gut-wrenching memory of the young officer's rape played over in his head, leaving him nauseous and anxious. Michael McCarter had promised him he would suffer the same fate if he dared to divulge the secrets of the Pi Tau’s final ritual, and he had taken the threat of violence extremely seriously. However, during the horrifying hour spent trapped in the locked basement bearing witness to Tom's brutal assault, he had metamorphosed from a shy, insecure teenager, into a more self-assured man. He did not feel conceited acknowledging the courage it had taken to go back to the frat house to rescue his new friends. In fact, he felt damn proud of himself. But his bravery did not extend to facing his father or grandfather and asking them to divulge secret information about their fellow alumni, especially now he had shamed them by not becoming a member of the elite fraternity. Of course, they had no idea of the reason, they just assumed he had failed the hazing rituals. But their ignorance only made Booker's request more difficult. He had no reason to ask who held the prestigious title of Keymaster, and he felt the suffocating heaviness of failure weighing down on his shoulders. More than anything, he wanted to help Dennis, but his ingrained childhood terror prevented him from confronting the two men who had made his life a misery from birth, leaving him feeling like a coward and a traitor.

When Booker came to the uncomfortable realization Harold wasn't the pushover he had expected, he quickly re-evaluated his tact, and pushing back his chair, he stood up and gave the scrawny freshman a withering look. “I thought you had balls, Horshack. I was obviously wrong. Enjoy your boring, safe life.”

The cruel statement had the desired effect. Harold jumped to his feet, the force of his movement sending his chair clattering to the pavement, the sound turning several patrons’ heads. “I _do_ have balls!” he yelled, his face turning red with fury. “I’ll get you the information you need, and then you’ll see I’m just as good as you!”

A slow smile played over Booker’s lips. “Attaboy, Harold,” he praised softly. “I knew you had it in you.”

Unsure if he had been played like the proverbial fiddle, Harold smiled back uncertainly. But even if his new friend _had_ cleverly manipulated him into agreeing to help, he didn’t care. He would prove himself once and for all, and with his head held high, he would look Dennis square in the face and revel in the admiration shining from the young officer’s eyes.

**

Fifty minutes later, Booker stood outside Tom’s apartment staring at the shiny **222** adorning the painted door, and procrastinating about whether to knock or just walk in. He thought through the pros and cons of both scenarios for several minutes before determining the former was the safer option, and lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles on the door. Silence met his request, and he knocked again, this time, louder and a little more forcefully. He heard movement in the apartment and knowing Tom would be eyeing him through the peephole, he relaxed his features into a smile. Seconds later, he heard the sound of the chain pulling back and the door swung slowly open, revealing Tom’s ashen face. 

“Hey,” he murmured, his heart filling with sadness at the sight of Tom’s frightened expression. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Tom rubbed an awkward hand over the back of his neck. “You didn’t,” he lied, his eyes not quite meeting his friend’s worried gaze, and stepping back from the door, he allowed Booker access to the apartment.

Once inside, Booker heard the chain slide back into place, and he suppressed a sigh. But when he spied the Smith and Wesson in Tom’s hand, his concern for his friend rose to a whole new level. It was understandable Tom was feeling nervous and vulnerable, but he did not want him to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, especially with a gun in his hand. One false move and Hanson could end up facing a murder charge, or worst-case scenario, he could wind up killing an innocent person. It was a worrying thought, and Booker wondered if he should intervene and remove the weapon from Tom’s possession. But he had no legal grounds to do so; Tom was licensed to carry a gun, and without going to Fuller and explaining the whole sordid story, he was powerless to act. However, he silently vowed to keep an eye on his friend, especially out in the field. The last thing Tom needed was a wrongful death charge on his hands.

Conscious that Booker was staring at his gun, Tom offered an embarrassed smile. “Stupid, huh?” he admitted in a soft voice. “It’s not like they’re gonna come knocking on my door.”

When Booker made no reply, he carefully placed the Smith and Wesson on the coffee table, walked over to the window, and stared outside. He flinched slightly when a comforting hand squeezed his shoulder, but for a fraction of a second, he allowed himself to draw comfort from the sensation of Booker’s touch before shrugging free. “You don’t have to babysit me,” he muttered, his gaze fixing on the steady stream of traffic below. “I’m okay.”

Booker knew Tom was _anything_ but okay, but he refrained from stating the obvious and instead, he went against his better judgment and agreed. “Okay, if you’re sure you’re all right, I _do_ have some things to take care of.”

Surprised and a little hurt that Booker would abandon him so easily, tears welled in Tom’s eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. “I’m sure,” he replied in a spuriously bright voice. “I’ve got some things to do too, so…”

His voice trailed off before the quaver rising in his throat threatened to give him away. The last thing he wanted was to spend time on his own with only his mind for company, where every sound had him reaching for his gun, certain that McCarter and the other Pi Taus were coming to get him. But he was too ashamed to admit his fears to Booker, and so he suffered in silence, unwilling to burden his friend any more than he already had.

Although Booker sensed Tom’s reluctance, he was a man on a mission. Having convinced Horshack to at least try to find out who held the esteemed title of Pi Tau Keymaster, he was desperate to go home and wait for the phone call that would give him all the information he needed to begin his secret assignment. He was not due back at the Chapel until Monday, giving him three full days to carry out his plan. However, he hoped by using the time-honored tactic of intimidation, he would be able to persuade the Keymaster to hand over the videotape without actually having to use any real force, saving him time and energy. It was his opinion the man would have to be at least in his sixties, giving him a physical as well as a psychological advantage. His arrogance knew no bounds, and he was confident he could intimidate a pensioner, even one who was quite possibly a _summa cum laude._ He did not feel threatened by intelligence, on the contrary, he enjoyed the challenge. Many inaccurately assumed he was nothing more than a muscle-bound pretty boy, a _grunt_ who was incapable of formulating a plan. And while he did not profess to be an Einstein, he _had_ graduated in the top two percent of his class, which validated his position as a man who possessed both brawn _and_ brains. Not that he cared what _Joe Citizen_ thought, but sometimes it was nice to prove them wrong. After all, no one wanted to be typecast, not even someone as laid-back as Booker.

But as he stared at Tom’s dejected stance—the slumped shoulders and downcast gaze—he briefly wondered if he should postpone his mission for a few days so he could continue to give his friend the support he needed. However, as much as it pained him to see Hanson so broken, he was a man of action, and once again, he went against his better judgment, and decided to forge ahead so he could finally bring an end to Tom’s fears forever.


	20. Fortis Cor (Brave Heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I was listening to the Foo Fighters when I wrote this chapter. If you're not familiar with the song, "My Hero", do yourself a favour and click on the link below.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**
> 
>   
>  ["My Hero" ~ Foo Fighters](https://youtu.be/w-u4MbDhpH8)   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Previously: Once inside, Booker heard the chain slide back into place, and he suppressed a sigh. But when he spied the Smith and Wesson in Tom’s hand, his concern for his friend rose to a whole new level. It was understandable Tom was feeling nervous and vulnerable, but he did not want him to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, especially with a gun in his hand. One false move and Hanson could end up facing a murder charge, and worst-case scenario, he could wind up killing an innocent person. It was a worrying thought, and Booker wondered if he should intervene and remove the weapon from Tom’s possession. But he had no legal grounds to do so; Tom was licensed to carry a gun, and without going to Fuller and explaining the whole sordid story, he was powerless to act. However, he silently vowed to keep an eye on his friend, especially out in the field. The last thing Tom needed was a wrongful death charge on his hands._
> 
> _Conscious that Booker was staring at his gun, Tom offered an embarrassed smile. “Stupid, huh?” he admitted in a soft voice. “It’s not like they’re gonna come knocking on my door.”_
> 
> _When Booker made no reply, he carefully placed the Smith and Wesson on the coffee table, walked over to the window, and stared outside. He flinched slightly when a comforting hand squeezed his shoulder, but for a fraction of a second, he allowed himself to draw comfort from the sensation of Booker’s touch before shrugging free. “You don’t have to babysit me,” he muttered, his gaze fixing on the steady stream of traffic below. “I’m okay.”_
> 
> _Booker knew Tom was anything but okay, but he refrained from stating the obvious and instead, he went against his better judgment and agreed. “Okay, if you’re sure you’re all right, I do have some things to take care of.”_
> 
> _Surprised and a little hurt that Booker would abandon him so easily, tears welled in Tom’s eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. “I’m sure,” he replied in a spuriously bright voice. “I’ve got some things to do too, so…”_
> 
> _His voice trailed off before the quaver rising in his throat threatened to give him away. The last thing he wanted was to spend time on his own with only his mind for company, where every sound had him reaching for his gun, certain that McCarter and the other Pi Taus were coming to get him. But he was too ashamed to admit his fears to Booker, and so he suffered in silence, unwilling to burden his friend any more than he already had._
> 
> _Although Booker sensed Tom’s reluctance, he was a man on a mission. Having convinced Horshack to at least try to find out who held the esteemed title of Pi Tau Keymaster, he was desperate to go home and wait for the phone call that would give him all the information he needed to begin his secret assignment. He was not due back at the Chapel until Monday, giving him three full days to carry out his plan. However, he hoped by using the time-honored tactic of intimidation, he would be able to persuade the Keymaster to hand over the videotape without actually having to use any real force, saving him time and energy. It was his opinion the man would have to be at least in his sixties, giving him a physical as well as a psychological advantage. His arrogance knew no bounds, and he was confident he could intimidate a pensioner, even one who was quite possibly a summa cum laude. He did not feel threatened by intelligence, on the contrary, he enjoyed the challenge. Many inaccurately assumed he was nothing more than a muscle-bound pretty boy, a grunt who was incapable of formulating a plan. And while he did not profess to be an Einstein, he had graduated in the top two percent of his class, which validated his position as a man who possessed both brawn and brains. Not that he cared what Joe Citizen thought, but sometimes it was nice to prove them wrong. After all, no one wanted to be typecast, not even someone as laid-back as Booker._
> 
> _But as he stared at Tom’s dejected stance—the slumped shoulders and downcast gaze—he briefly wondered if he should postpone his mission for a few days so he could continue to give his friend the support he needed. However, as much as it pained him to see Hanson so broken, he was a man of action, and once again, he went against his better judgment, and decided to forge ahead so he could finally bring an end to Tom’s fears forever._

**"My Hero" lyrics from "The Colour and the Shape" by the Foo Fighters**

Too alarming now to talk about  
Take your pictures down and shake it out  
Truth or consequence, say it aloud  
Use that evidence, race it around

There goes my hero  
Watch him as he goes  
There goes my hero  
He's ordinary

Don't the best of them bleed it out  
While the rest of them peter out  
Truth or consequence, say it aloud  
Use that evidence, race it around

There goes my hero  
Watch him as he goes  
There goes my hero  
He's ordinary

Kudos, my hero  
Leaving all the best  
You know my hero  
The one that's on

There goes my hero  
Watch him as he goes  
There goes my hero  
He's ordinary  
There goes my hero  
Watch him as he goes  
There goes my hero  
He's ordinary

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35799220382/in/dateposted-public/)

_**The following afternoon ******_

The tree-lined country road narrowed into a winding track, and decelerating slightly, Booker carefully navigated the bumpy dirt trail. Horshack’s directions were vague at best, hurriedly whispered down the phone in a panicked voice, and Booker could not help but wonder what horrors the young freshman had experienced at the hands of his elders to leave him so terrified. But now was not the time to reflect on the abhorrent behavior of parental bullying; his focus was on Tom and giving him the peace of mind he so desperately sought. If he could achieve that _one_ goal, his mission would be classified a success, and then he could concentrate on building a friendship with the man he adored.

As the Cadillac rounded a sharp bend, an imposing Spanish Mission style house loomed in the distance; its white roof parapets starkly outlined against the brilliant blue of the cloudless fall sky. Impressed by the elegance of the structure, Booker stopped the car, and lowering his Ray-Bans, he peered up at the stately home. 

Ingram Holland had done extremely well for himself. According to Horshack, the Californian country home was only one of dozens of properties he owned, including several villas in Europe. He was—by all accounts—a ruthless tycoon, and those who knew him, affectionately thought of him as Los Angeles’ answer to Donald Trump, but with better hair. After graduating top of his business class, he had amassed his fortune in real estate development, taking down several of his rivals during his illustrious forty-year career. However, despite Holland’s obvious power, Booker felt no anxiety confronting him about the tape. The Pi Taus had videoed a violent rape, and that immediately put Holland on the wrong side of the law. Possession of such material was a crime, and Booker was not afraid to play the cop card. He was confident his well thought out scare tactics would be enough to have the sixty-two-year-old quivering in his slippers, but if not, he was prepared to step it up a notch and physically intimidate the mogul. More than anything he wanted to slap on a pair of handcuffs and haul Holland to the Chapel, but that was not even an option. He had made a promise to Tom not to divulge the details of the rape, and, therefore, his hands remained tied. But once he had the tape in his custody, he hoped to change his friend’s mind because nothing would give him greater satisfaction than seeing the seven guilty Pi Taus quivering in the dock, knowing they were facing years in prison for their crime.

With his face set in a stony mask, Booker pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, and slamming his Caddy into gear, he drove the short distance up the driveway; the crunch of tires on gravel announcing his arrival. As he switched off the car’s ignition, he stared at the imposing building, half expecting someone to throw open the arched, iron-adorned double door and accuse him of trespassing. But the house remained eerily quiet, its freshly painted white stucco walls catching the sun’s brilliant rays. Even with the protection of his dark glasses, Booker found himself squinting, and climbing out of the Cadillac, he stepped out into the warm air and slammed the door purposely behind him. He strode up the steps to the arcaded entry porch and without hesitation, grasped hold of the door knocker and rapped several times, the sound reverberating loudly as the iron struck the ornate wood.

Several minutes passed and disappointment weighed heavily in his chest. It appeared Harold’s intel was wrong, and Holland was not spending the fall in California. But just as he turned to walk back down the curved granite steps, the heavy wooden door swung open, revealing a silver-haired gentleman dressed in khaki chinos, a white shirt, and expensive loafers. A stylish straw hat finished off the outfit, its brim casting a flattering shadow over the man’s attractive face. The effect added an air of chic to the casual attire, and although not his style, Booker found himself suitably impressed.

“Well, _hello,”_ the man smiled, his emerald green eyes twinkling with amusement as he ran an appreciative eye over Booker’s muscular frame. “I had a feeling you’d show up on my doorstep. It’s Officer Booker, isn’t it?”

A look of shock registered on Booker’s face before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How did you know I’m a cop?” 

Holland tilted back his head and laughed, the beguiling chuckle rolling smoothly over his tongue. “Oh, Dennis, you do amuse me,” he teased. “I have friends in high places; there’s _nothing_ I don’t know about you and your dear friend, Officer Hanson. Speaking of which, how _is_ dear Tom? Feeling better, I hope.”

Blind anger flared in Booker’s dark eyes, and with no regard for his safety, he stepped forward and jammed a finger into Holland’s solar plexus. “You sonofabitch,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “I want that fucking tape, and I want it _now.”_

Seemingly unperturbed by Booker’s threatening stance, Holland smiled sweetly. “Of course you do,” he crooned softly. “Why else would you be here? But I’m a man of breeding, Dennis, and I don’t conduct business on the doorstep of my home. So please, won’t you join me on the patio? It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve been enjoying a few pre-dinner Mojito’s while watching young Jorge clean the pool.”

There was no mistaking the underlying tone of lasciviousness in Holland’s voice when he spoke the pool boy’s name, and a shudder of revulsion ran over Booker’s body. But it was not because Holland had an eye for young men—that would have made him a hypocrite of the highest order—it was the inflection of entitlement in the mogul’s voice that set his teeth on edge. Holland flaunted his wealth and privilege through every fluid movement, every articulately spoken word, and it was obvious he believed he could have whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, including any attractive man or woman who caught his eye. He was a man who would not take no for an answer, and to Booker, that was a frightening realization. If Ingram Holland wanted something badly enough, he would take it, either by clever manipulation or by force. He was a man who wielded his power just to prove a point, and the prospect of having to deal with such an egocentric bully had Booker rethinking his strategy. After only a few minutes in Holland’s company, he now realized he had grossly miscalculated his youthfulness, intelligence, and tenacity. The man standing before him was not your average sixty-two-year-old, and retrieving the tape might not be as easy as he had originally thought. Therefore, if he were to achieve his goal, he would need to think on his feet, or become just another statistic of Holland’s shrewd battle of dominance.

With that in mind, Booker decided to play it cool, and shrugging his shoulders apathetically, he took off his sunglasses and looked Holland square in the eye. “Sure, I could use a drink.”

A triumphant smirk twitched at Holland’s lips, and stepping back from the door, he allowed the young officer entrance into his home. Inside the house, the ambient temperature dropped several degrees, and as Booker sauntered down the wide foyer toward the open patio doors, his eyes flitted from left to right, soaking up the numerous spacious rooms on each side of the passageway, all adorned with elegant, yet rustic furnishings. But his expression remained unimpressed. Hell would freeze over before he would show any sign of veneration toward Holland. One of Booker's major character flaws was his arrogance, and he honestly believed he could outwit Holland and walk out of the multi-million-dollar house triumphant. He would play the game, whatever it may be, and he would show Ingram Holland once and for all that those with money did not always prevail.

Little did he know...

As he stepped out onto the mosaic tiled patio, a warm hand rested on his backside, and he flinched instinctively. A throaty laugh sounded behind him, and spinning around, he glared angrily at his molester. “Keep your hands off me,” he snarled, his eyes glinting angrily. “I'm not a piece of fucking meat.”

Holland’s emerald eyes sparkled brightly, and flicking the tip of his tongue salaciously over his lips, his gaze roved hungrily over Booker’s taut body. “Indeed,” he murmured, and regaining his composure, he smiled warmly. “Please, take a seat. I’ll get Lupita to bring you a drink. What’s your poison?”

Booker could hear the rhythmic _swish_ of a hand-held skimmer dipping through water, and turning his head, he watched as Jorge methodically scooped insects and leaves from the lagoon-style inground pool. The crystal-clear water shimmered under the intense California sun, the rippling surface sparkling invitingly. Jorge’s bare torso glistened with perspiration, and when his muscles flexed, Booker was reminded of a perfectly chiseled Adonis. With his sculptured abs and low-slung board shorts, the young man was a vision of masculine eroticism, and the sight sent a tremor of arousal through Booker's body. It had been a long time since he'd had sex, and he found himself drawn in by the young man's beguiling beauty.

Suddenly aware he had been staring alluringly at the young Mexican for a little _too_ long, Booker cleared his throat in embarrassment and quickly returned his gaze to his host. A wistful look twinkled in the older man’s eyes, relaxing his features into an expression akin to that of a proud father. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?” Holland murmured softly.

Not about to admit his attraction to the dark-haired man, Booker turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Enough bullshit, Holland. How ‘bout you give me the tape, and then you can go back to ogling the pool boy.”

A calculating coldness replaced the reflective expression in Holland’s eyes. “I’m a businessman, Officer Booker,” the older man stressed in a low, teasing voice. _“Surely_ you didn’t expect me to hand over such a _delightful_ video without receiving something in return?”

Confused by the statement, Booker found himself faltering. He had expected the tycoon to flat-out refuse to hand over the tape, and he had prepared himself for a fight. But now it appeared Holland wanted to strike a deal for its return. “I-I don’t understand. Are you asking me for _money?”_ he questioned.

“Hardly,” Holland chuckled, his broad smile revealing his perfect white teeth. “I have enough money to last me a hundred lifetimes. Tsk, tsk, Officer Booker, I had hoped you were smarter than that. Given the Pi Taus _propensity_ for gay sex, I thought you would have figured it out. I want _you,_ Officer Booker, or more accurately, I want to take advantage of your beautiful body.”

The color drained from Booker’s face, and for a fraction of a second, the world tilted sideways. When his vision cleared, his gaze settled on Jorge’s back, and it was then he noticed the faint crisscross of scars adorning the bronzed flesh. The sinister reality hit him hard, and cold tendrils of truth wrapped around his heart. _Holland_ had inflicted those injuries, he used and abused Jorge for his own sexual gratification, knowing full well the young man would never tell. He probably paid the pool cleaner a good wage, effectively buying his silence and giving himself carte blanche to treat him as he pleased. The realization sickened Booker to the pit of his stomach, and shifting his gaze, he stared at Holland with narrowed eyes.

“You twisted bastard,” he growled. “I’m not one of your rent boys. Why the fuck would I agree to be your whore?”

Stalling for effect, Holland picked up the crystal tumbler from the patio table and took a sip of his drink. Several seconds passed before he finally spoke, his voice smooth with confidence. “It’s really very simple, Dennis. You’re in love with Tom Hanson, and I’m willing to bet you’d trade three days of your life to give him the one thing he so desperately craves… the tape.”

Booker rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. If he prostituted himself to Holland for seventy-two hours, he could give Tom his life back. It wasn’t the most abhorrent idea the mogul could have come up with as a bargaining chip. Holland was physically attractive, and Booker often enjoyed sex with older, more experienced men, in fact, it was the only time he willingly bottomed. But there was still the underlying unease when he looked at Jorge. If Holland got his thrills inflicting pain, then he could easily be walking into a world of trouble. But when he envisioned the tortured look in Tom’s beautiful brown eyes, his heart fluttered with pain. A little discomfort and loss of self-respect were nothing compared to what Tom had endured at the hands of the Pi Taus, and it was then he realized how deep his love for the young officer ran. With that thought in mind, he knew he would selflessly give himself to Holland in return for Tom’s peace of mind because to not take up the offer would mean dealing with the regret for the rest of his life.

Therefore, he squared his shoulders and stared unflinchingly into Holland’s expectant eyes. “So, if I agree to stay for three days, you’ll give me the edited _and_ unedited tape, right?” he clarified in a bold voice. 

Sensing victory, Holland softened his features into an honorable smile. “Correct.”

“And you’ll give me your word there are no other copies?” Booker added.

Holland paused for a moment, before replying. “I will.”

A feeling of unease ran through Booker’s body, but he quickly shook it off. In his mind, he had no choice but to agree, and without further hesitation, he nodded his head. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Unable to hide his delight, Holland wrapped a companionable arm around Booker’s shoulders. “Come on,” he beckoned cheerfully. “Let’s get you that drink.”

Booker’s heart skipped a beat, and with one final glance at Jorge, he followed Holland into the house.


	21. He Sold His Soul ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Not about to admit his attraction to the dark-haired man, Booker turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Enough bullshit, Holland. How ‘bout you give me the tape, and then you can go back to ogling the pool boy.”_
> 
> _A calculating coldness replaced the reflective expression in Holland’s eyes. “I’m a businessman, Officer Booker,” the older man stressed in a low, teasing voice. “Surely you didn’t expect me to hand over such a delightful video without receiving something in return?”_
> 
> _Confused by the statement, Booker found himself faltering. He had expected the tycoon to flat-out refuse to hand over the tape, and he had prepared himself for a fight. But now it appeared Holland wanted to strike a deal for its return. “I-I don’t understand. Are you asking me for money?” he questioned._
> 
> _“Hardly,” Holland chuckled, his broad smile revealing his perfect white teeth. “I have enough money to last me a hundred lifetimes. Tsk, tsk, Officer Booker, I had hoped you were smarter than that. Given the Pi Taus propensity for gay sex, I thought you would have figured it out. I want you, Officer Booker, or more accurately, I want to take advantage of your beautiful body.”_
> 
> _The color drained from Booker’s face, and for a fraction of a second, the world tilted sideways. When his vision cleared, his gaze settled on Jorge’s chest, and it was then he noticed the faint crisscross of scars adorning the bronzed flesh. The sinister reality hit him hard, and cold tendrils of truth wrapped around his heart. Holland had inflicted those injuries, he used and abused Jorge for his own sexual gratification, knowing full well the young man would never tell. He probably paid the pool cleaner a good wage, effectively buying his silence and giving himself carte blanche to treat him as he pleased. The realization sickened Booker to the pit of his stomach, and shifting his gaze, he stared at Holland with narrowed eyes._
> 
> _“You twisted bastard,” he growled. “I’m not one of your rent boys. Why the fuck would I agree to be your whore?”_
> 
> _Stalling for effect, Holland picked up the crystal tumbler from the patio table and took a sip of his drink. Several seconds passed before he finally spoke, his voice smooth with confidence. “It’s really very simple, Dennis. You’re in love with Tom Hanson, and I’m willing to bet you’d trade three days of your life to give him the one thing he so desperately craves… the tape.”_
> 
> _Booker rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. If he prostituted himself to Holland for seventy-two hours, he could give Tom his life back. It wasn’t the most abhorrent idea the mogul could have come up with as a bargaining chip. Holland was physically attractive, and Booker often enjoyed sex with older, more experienced men, in fact, it was the only time he willingly bottomed. But there was still the underlying unease when he looked at Jorge. If Holland got his thrills inflicting pain, then he could easily be walking into a world of trouble. But when he envisioned the tortured look in Tom’s beautiful brown eyes, his heart fluttered with pain. A little discomfort and loss of self-respect were nothing compared to what Tom had endured at the hands of the Pi Taus, and it was then he realized how deep his love for the young officer ran. With that thought in mind, he knew he would selflessly give himself to Holland in return for Tom’s peace of mind because to not take up the offer would mean dealing with the regret for the rest of his life._
> 
> _Therefore, he squared his shoulders and stared unflinchingly into Holland’s expectant eyes. “So, if I agree to stay for three days, you’ll give me the edited and unedited tape, right?” he clarified in a bold voice._
> 
> _Sensing victory, Holland softened his features into an honorable smile. “Correct.”_
> 
> _“And you’ll give me your word there are no other copies?” Booker added._
> 
> _Holland paused for a moment, before replying, “I will.”_
> 
> _A feeling of unease ran through Booker’s body, but he quickly shook it off. In his mind, he had no choice but to agree, and without further hesitation, he nodded his head. “Okay, I’ll do it.”_
> 
> _Unable to hide his delight, Holland wrapped a companionable arm around Booker’s shoulders. “Come on,” he beckoned cheerfully. “Let’s get you that drink.”_
> 
> _Booker’s heart skipped a beat, and with one final glance at Jorge, he followed Holland into the house._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35160024003/in/dateposted-public/)

The early evening sun steadily dropped toward the western horizon, its fading rays filtering in through the white Venetian blinds, creating slatted shadows across the hard timber floor. Booker stood in the middle of an exquisitely decorated bedroom, unsure exactly what he was supposed to do. After following his host into the billiard room, he had sat stiffly on a bar stool nursing a glass of fifty-year-old scotch as he listened to Holland talk about his illustrious career. His senses were on high alert, and wary of becoming intoxicated, he had sipped cautiously at his drink while feigning interest in the boastful commentary. But now, an hour later, he found himself alone after Holland had shown him to the master bathroom so he could wash up for dinner. But once the mogul had left the room, he had taken the opportunity to use the vintage Candlestick telephone to call Fuller. He had quickly explained he needed a few days off work to visit his sick mom, and although he hated deceiving his captain, the lie had rolled easily off his tongue. A flush had heated his cheeks when Fuller sent best wishes to his mother, but the shame did not last long. He had other concerns on his mind, and it was then he seriously began to question the wisdom of his decision. By agreeing to have sex with the tycoon, he was effectively at Holland’s mercy. While he knew he could take care of himself if need be, he had still entered into an agreement without discussing all the terms. If the scars on Jorge’s torso were any indication, Holland liked to play rough, and although an experienced and adventurous lover, Booker rarely bottomed, and therefore, the idea of becoming the more submissive partner unnerved him. However, it was too late to back out now, and the memory of Hanson’s tortured eyes was all it took for him to refocus on his objective. He would suffer in silence if it would save his beloved Tommy from a lifetime of misery because giving his friend closure was all that mattered… even though the idea of submitting to Holland made him nervous. After all, love wasn’t love unless you were willing to sacrifice something for it. 

When a warm hand caressed his lower back, Booker instinctively shied away, but the firm hand grasped his hip and slowly spun him around. Holland’s jade eyes danced mischievously in front of him, and his stomach somersaulted with nerves. He started to speak, but the persistent hand found its way down to his crotch, and as expert fingers gently massaged his cock, his words were inhaled along with his breath.

“Mmm, you’re a big boy,” Holland crooned, his eyes blackening with arousal as his fingers eagerly explored Booker’s hardening cock.

Embarrassed by the compliment, Booker grasped the mogul’s wrist and attempted to pull his hand away, but the sixty-two-year-old was not about to let the dark-haired officer dissuade him, and he continued to fondle the long shaft thickening between his fingers. “I think dinner can wait, don’t you?” the older man murmured softly, his tongue trailing seductively over his full lips. “So why don’t you strip naked so I can see what I’m paying for.”

Humiliation burned Booker’s face, and lowering his eyes, he remained motionless as he struggled to maintain his composure. But seconds later, cruel fingers squeezed his sensitive cock, and with a yelp, he quickly lifted his gaze to find a demonic glint had replaced the passion in Holland’s eyes. 

“What the hell?” he squeaked, the mistreatment of his semi-erect cock causing it to throb painfully.

Without pause, Holland once again clenched his fingers around Booker’s shaft, and glaring at him through narrowed lids, he spoke in a cold, affectless tone. “I… said… _strip.”_

Fear flickered in Booker’s dark eyes, but he remained outwardly calm, and arching an eyebrow, he nodded toward his crotch. “You’re gonna need to let go if you want me to undress,” he stated in a flat voice.

With a cordial smile, Holland released Booker’s cock and took a step back. Although he had bought himself some time, Booker knew he could not stall forever, and with an audible sigh, he kicked off his boots and removed his socks. After pulling his tee shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor, he took in a deep, uneven breath while attempting to slow his thundering heart. But when Holland took a menacing step toward him, he quickly unbuckled his belt rather than face another assault on his already aching cock. Without waiting for instructions, he popped the button of his jeans and lowered the zipper. The action caused the rhythm of Holland’s breathing to intensify, and before long, his rasping pants weighted the air, creating a suffocating dungeon in Booker's mind. For the briefest of moments, the dark-haired officer hesitated, but when Tom’s face flashed before his eyes, he knew there was no turning back, and exhaling a resigned sigh, he allowed the denim to pool around his ankles.

 _“Yes,”_ Holland breathed, and inserting his thumbs in the waistband of Booker’s boxers, he lowered the soft material to the floor. 

Released from its confines, Booker’s cock jutted out rigidly from a nest of coarse, dark curls; his erection thick, proud and ready for action. His smooth, mushroom-shaped cockhead blushed purple as blood rushed through his shaft, hardening him further. Confused by his growing awakening, the conflicting reactions of arousal and shame fought for dominance over his body. But he was a red-blooded twenty-three-year-old male in his sexual prime, and eventually, his cock won the emotionally charged battle. His eyes fluttered closed and exhaling a jagged, expectant breath, he willed Holland to touch him and bring forth his release. 

However, the Keymaster had other ideas, and he forcefully shoved Booker toward the bed. “On your hands and knees, boy,” he growled, his callous tone immediately devouring any residual pretense of comradery from his voice. “I’m going to fuck you till you bleed.”

Now that the concept of sex with Holland was fast becoming a reality, Booker’s resolve began to falter, and he watched with growing apprehension as the mogul undressed before eventually speaking his mind. “I don’t let anyone touch me unless they use a condom,” he informed the older man in a steady voice that belied his mounting anxiety. “So you’d better suit up, or the deal’s—”

 _CRACK!_ A closed fist slammed into the side of Booker’s head, sending him reeling. With his jeans and boxers around his ankles, he lost his footing, and staggering sideways, he collided with the nightstand and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Disoriented by the ferocity of the unexpected assault, fear clouded his eyes. “Wh-what—”

“NO TALKING!” Holland yelled, the command sending a jolt of déjà vu through Booker’s addled brain. McCarter had screamed the same warning during the hazing rituals, and the young officer wondered if the directive had become subconsciously ingrained within Holland during his Pi Tau days. But he had no time to ponder the complexities of the human psyche. Within seconds, he was hauled to his feet and pushed face down onto the king-size bed, before swift hands removed the tangle of clothing from his ankles. When he attempted to roll over, Holland grasped a handful of his hair and forcefully shoved his face into the mattress.

“FUCK!” Booker yelled, the curse word muted by the thick fabric of the diamond-stitched coverlet. He struggled to draw breath, his body writhing as he fought against the restraining hand that was slowly smothering him. “Lemme go! Lemme _GO!”_

Holland straddled Booker’s legs, pinning him to the bed with the weight of his body. “Are you going to be a good boy?” he purred, and without warning, he rammed a finger into Booker’s unprepared anus.

A sharp pain ripped through Booker’s insides, bringing tears to his eyes. “SHIT!” he screamed, his muffled cry swallowed into the depths of the mattress. “DON’T! _DON’T!”_

The controlling hand yanked the young officer’s head to the side, freeing his mouth and allowing him to breathe. Tears streamed down his face as he drew in some much-needed air, the oxygen burning his restricted lungs. Holland’s finger continued to probe inside him, humiliating him with each measured thrust. But when the tip grazed his prostate, a moan exhaled from between his lips, and his cock lengthened. It was then he realized the full extent of Tom’s shame. Holland was brutalizing him without his consent, and he was getting off on it, just like Tom had when McCarter raped him. Although he had comforted him at the time, he had not realized how dehumanizing the experience had made his friend feel. But now he was living the same nightmare, he finally understood the level of Tom's mortification. Holland was the puppeteer pulling the strings, and he was nothing more than a helpless marionette; his body was betraying him, and the psychological effect was crippling.

A soft laugh filled the room, followed by warm breath tickling Booker’s cheek, the sensation raising the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. “I’ll play nice if you promise to be a good boy,” Holland whispered, his tongue tenderly caressing the shell-like ridge of the young officer’s ear. “I _know_ you like my finger up your ass, but if you want me to be gentle, you have to submit to me. Got it?”

Hot tears burned Booker’s eyes, his mounting shame slowly suffocating his ego and dousing the fire within his soul. He was about to surrender his body willingly to a man who elicited pleasure by inflicting pain on others, thereby becoming a sexual slave. Although he had voluntarily agreed to Holland’s proposition, it was only now, as he lay immobilized on the bed while the tycoon digitally stimulated him that he understood the impact of his decision. Holland had all the power, and he was nothing more than a dispensable toy. If he refused to play along, he would not retrieve the tapes, leaving Tom in a permanent state of panic and unrest. But if he _did_ play along, he risked losing his self-worth, and he wondered what impact it would have on his life. While his cocksure bravado was mostly an act designed to deflect the unwanted ridicule and criticism he often endured due to his bisexuality, it did in part, define him, especially since he became a cop. Therefore, losing such an integral part of his being would undoubtedly alter his personality forever. It was a frightening prospect, and yet the thought of Tom never regaining _his_ self-esteem troubled him even more, and so he allowed the life-changing words to tumble freely from his lips. 

“Okay,” he gasped, the fiery pain flaring in his anus reducing him to a mass of quivering flesh. “I’ll be good! I’ll be good!”

A sinister smile played over Holland’s full lips. “I’ll be good, _what?”_

Confusion furrowed Booker’s brow as he struggled to comprehend the meaning of the question. “I’ll be good, _sir?”_ he ventured in a trembling voice. 

The reverent display of respect had the desired effect, and the probing finger withdrew, sending instant relief flooding through Booker’s body. But the reprieve was temporary, and choking on a sob, he closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. 

The ruling king had outplayed the helpless pawn, and the gerent would spare no mercy...


	22. Fade to Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Holland straddled Booker’s legs, pinning him to the bed with the weight of his body. “Are you going to be a good boy?” he purred, and without warning, he rammed a finger into Booker’s unprepared anus._
> 
> _A sharp pain ripped through Booker’s insides, bringing tears to his eyes. “SHIT!” he screamed, his muffled cry swallowed into the depths of the mattress. “DON’T! DON’T!”_
> 
> _The controlling hand yanked the young officer’s head to the side, freeing his mouth and allowing him to breathe. Tears streamed down his face as he drew in some much-needed air, the oxygen burning his restricted lungs. Holland’s finger continued to probe inside him, humiliating him with each measured thrust. But when the tip grazed his prostate, a moan exhaled from between his lips, and his cock lengthened. It was then he realized the full extent of Tom’s shame. Holland was brutalizing him without his consent, and he was getting off on it, just like Tom had when McCarter raped him. Although he had comforted him at the time, he had not realized how dehumanizing the experience had made his friend feel. But now he was living the same nightmare, he finally understood the level of Tom's mortification. Holland was the puppeteer pulling the strings, and he was nothing more than a helpless marionette; his body was betraying him, and the psychological effect was crippling._
> 
> _A soft laugh filled the room, followed by warm breath tickling Booker’s cheek, the sensation raising the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. “I’ll play nice if you promise to be a good boy,” Holland whispered, his tongue tenderly caressing the shell-like ridge of the young officer’s ear. “I know you like my finger up your ass, but if you want me to be gentle, you have to submit to me. Got it?”_
> 
> _Hot tears burned Booker’s eyes, his mounting shame slowly suffocating his ego and dousing the fire within his soul. He was about to surrender his body willingly to a man who elicited pleasure by inflicting pain on others, thereby becoming a sexual slave. Although he had voluntarily agreed to Holland’s proposition, it was only now, as he lay immobilized on the bed while the tycoon digitally stimulated him that he understood the impact of his decision. Holland had all the power, and he was nothing more than a dispensable toy. If he refused to play along, he would not retrieve the tapes, leaving Tom in a permanent state of panic and unrest. But if he did play along, he risked losing his self-worth, and he wondered what impact it would have on his life. While his cocksure bravado was mostly an act designed to deflect the unwanted ridicule and criticism he often endured due to his bisexuality, it did in part, define him, especially since he became a cop. Therefore, losing such an integral part of his being would undoubtedly alter his personality forever. It was a frightening prospect, and yet the thought of Tom never regaining his self-esteem troubled him even more, and so he allowed the life-changing words to tumble freely from his lips._
> 
> _“Okay,” he gasped, the fiery pain flaring in his anus reducing him to a mass of quivering flesh. “I’ll be good! I’ll be good!”_
> 
> _A sinister smile played over Holland’s full lips. “I’ll be good, what?”_
> 
> _Confusion furrowed Booker’s brow as he struggled to comprehend the meaning of the question. “I’ll be good, sir?” he ventured in a trembling voice._
> 
> _The reverent display of respect had the desired effect, and the probing finger withdrew, sending instant relief flooding through Booker’s body. But the reprieve was temporary, and choking on a sob, he closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate._
> 
> _The ruling king had outplayed the helpless pawn, and the gerent would spare no mercy..._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35837320291/in/dateposted-public/)

Booker's head wrenched backward, the belt wrapped around his neck tightening alarmingly. The buckle dug painfully into his larynx, and rearing up, his fingers grappled frantically at the strap that was slowly suffocating him. But when a rough hand grabbed his erect cock and squeezed callously, a strangled scream spilled from between his lips, and he obediently dropped back on all fours. With his neck muscles visibly cording from the strain, he stared with panic-stricken eyes at the replica of Dali’s _‘Christ of St John of the Cross’_ hanging on the wall in front of him. For the briefest of moments, he could not help but wonder if it had been Holland’s plan all along to asphyxiate him and dump his body in the desert. It wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded, after all, dead men told no tales, and he had enough information to put seven Pi Taus in prison for a very long time. Holland had good reason to want him gone, and at that moment, as he struggled to pull oxygen into his burning lungs, he almost wished the mogul would cut off his airway completely, and then he would finally be free from the humiliation and torment.

With a grunt, Holland rammed his massive cock deeper inside Booker’s bleeding anus. “Who’s my beautiful stallion?” he mocked, his fingers tightening around the belt strap. When he received no answer, he viciously yanked Booker’s head back further until his neck muscles strained against his taut flesh. “Answer me, boy, or you’re going to live to regret it.”

Tears leaked from the corners of Booker’s terrified eyes, and relinquishing the last shred of his dignity, he spat out the detested words through twisted lips. _“I_ am… sir.”

Holland’s lip curled into a cruel, malignant smile. “That’s right, boy, and don’t you ever forget it.”

**

**Three days later**

The sound of ringing telephones and excited voices floated down the Chapel’s stairwell, and pausing mid-step, Tom closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten. It was his first day back at work, and after spending the last three days holed up alone in his apartment, the cacophony of noise assaulting his ears grated heavily on his frayed nerves. He longed to turn around and flee to the sanctuary of his home, but he knew if he did, it would raise suspicion among his captain and friends. The last thing he wanted was unwanted visitors turning up on his doorstep and pestering him with awkward questions. Except, he wasn’t being _entirely_ honest with himself. There was _one_ person he wished would knock on his door, but that person appeared to have vanished into thin air. After explaining he had _things to do,_ Booker had not made contact for four days, and during that time, Tom had gone through a full range of emotions. First he had experienced the loneliness of abandonment, and he had wallowed in self-pitying misery for an entire day, staring morosely at the door, waiting for the knock that would signal his friend’s arrival. Next came anger, and he had stomped around his apartment, loudly cursing Booker for being such an inconsiderate prick. But when Sunday morning dawned, worry replaced his ire, and he had spent the day pacing the floor, procrastinating over whether to call his friend or leave him be. However, eventually he had come to the conclusion Booker did not want to be around him, and he had slipped back into a deep depression, spending the rest of his Sunday lounging on the sofa watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island. But as the day drew to an end, his melancholy mood had manifested into gut-churning agitation, and he sought comfort the only way he knew how; by ripping open the scabs that adorned his arms. Only when his blood bubbled to the surface had he begun to feel calm, and he had eventually fallen into a troubled sleep, his bloodied fingers clutching a cushion protectively to his chest.

At the memory, hot tears pricked at Tom’s eyelids. But digging deep, he found an inner determination, and opening his eyes, he inhaled and exhaled several times in quick succession until he felt in control of his emotions. Once calm, he climbed the last few steps and entered Jump Street’s main hub.

Dozens of police officers scurried around the room, their purpose unclear, but their determination evident by the focused look in their eyes. A significant bust had obviously gone down, which as a cop, should have made Tom happy. But instead, his stomach knotted, and the heavy weight of panic constricted his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. There were too many people, too much noise, and his head snapped rapidly from left to right, his anxious gaze desperately seeking out Booker. But each time his eyes focused on an unfamiliar face, their features morphed into a distorted caricature of Michael McCarter, complete with snarling lips and razor-like fangs. Suddenly, the room became too small, the walls closing in on him, suffocating him in swirling tendrils of darkness, and stumbling backward, the floor disappeared...

“Hanson?”

The familiar voice brought Tom back to reality with a thump, and regaining his footing, he gaped open-mouthed as the McCarter-esque mask in front of him slowly transformed into the welcome face of Judy Hoffs. Tears of relief filled his dark eyes, but he rigidly held them in check and clenching his hands into fists, he offered his friend a strained smile. “Hey, Jude.”

Concern softened Judy’s eyes, and she laid a comforting hand on Tom’s arm. “Are you okay, Hanson? You look… upset.” 

The absurdity of how close he had come to falling on his ass in the middle of the operations room became too much for Tom, and covering his mouth with his hand, he stifled a giggle. He knew he was teetering on the edge of hysteria, and his eyes frantically searched the room for the one person he knew could talk him down from the treacherous precipice from which he now found himself dangling. But Booker was nowhere in sight, and once again, he felt himself losing his grip on reality. The room started to spin, and with a moan, his legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor. 

“TOM!” Judy yelled, and dropping to her knees, she cradled her friend’s head in her arms. Within seconds, Doug and Harry were by her side, their expressions serious.

Tom’s long lashes fluttered spasmodically as his mind slowly fought against the blackness that had engulfed him. “Dennis…” he murmured.

Three pairs of eyes widened in surprise, but for Doug, the utterance of Booker’s name was more than just an oddity, it raised serious alarm bells, and he hurriedly addressed Harry. “Get Fuller.”

**

Adam Fuller tented his fingers beneath his chin and studied Tom’s pallid face. The young officer sat slumped in his chair with his arms folded protectively across his chest, his eyes stubbornly focused on the worn linoleum floor. His right leg jiggled nervously, his knee exposed where the denim had ripped away. He reminded Fuller of a coiled spring, winding tighter with each jarring leg movement. It was a disconcerting sight for a captain who cared deeply for his officers, and lowering his hands, the senior officer spoke in a warm, fatherly tone. “Talk to me, Hanson.”

Without making eye contact, Tom continued his one-legged tap dance. “About what?” he mumbled into his chest.

Fuller paused for a moment before dropping the mother of all bombshells. “About you and Booker.”

Tom’s head snapped up in one sharp motion, his startled eyes blinking rapidly with nerves. “Wh-what?” he stammered, perspiration prickling his upper lip. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do,” Fuller replied quietly. “Something happened at that fraternity, and I want to know what. Things just don’t add up, Hanson; your hospitalization, Booker’s refusal to write up his report, then taking time off _just_ when he’s due back after his suspension. It’s all—”

“Booker’s taken time off?” Tom interrupted in a higher than normal voice. “Why? What’s happened?”

Fuller sensed a level of hurt disguised beneath the surprise in Tom’s voice, and he narrowed his eyes in question. “Are you upset he didn’t tell you? I didn’t think the two of you were that close.” 

Heat flamed Tom’s cheeks, and he quickly lowered his gaze to the scuffed toes of his boots. “We’re not… I mean, we kinda got to know each other better and I thought he would have said something, that’s all. You know, ‘cause we’re partners.”

“Is that so?” Fuller queried, and raising a skeptical eyebrow, he studied Tom’s flushed cheeks. “Because it seems to me you and Booker are thick as thieves. I don’t like secrets, Hanson, they can lead to a whole lot of trouble in our line of work. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your superior, and I won’t have two of my officers thinking they can keep vital information from me just because they feel the need to protect each other.”

Fuller’s carefully measured scrutiny increased Tom’s level of unease, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We’re not,” he muttered moodily.

“Not keeping secrets, or not covering for each other?” Fuller pushed, his determination to get a straight answer from his young charge hardening his features.

Tom’s lower lip trembled slightly as he returned a sulky glare. “Both.”

“Both, _what?”_ Fuller commanded, his tone holding a note of authority.

“Both, _Captain,”_ Tom corrected softly.

Although he had not raised his voice, the heavy emphasis and full use of his superior’s title revealed the level of Tom’s irritation, but Fuller decided not to discipline him further. “Go home, Hanson,” he instructed. “Take an extra few days to recuperate. But when Booker gets back, the three of us are going to have a long talk. Got it?”

Unable to meet his captain’s eye, Tom returned his gaze to the floor. “Got it,” he muttered under his breath.

With a sigh, Fuller stood up and approached the young officer. “I’m not the enemy, Tom,” he declared softly. “If something’s troubling you, my door’s always open.”

Overwhelmed by the paternal gesture, Tom swallowed down the giant lump that had formed in his throat. “Thanks, Coach,” he murmured, and getting to his feet, he walked out of the room.

**

Penhall’s gaze followed his friend as he exited Fuller’s office. He watched with growing interest as Tom sat down at his desk and stared wistfully at Booker’s empty chair, before resting his elbows on the worn wooden surface and burying his face in his hands. It was obvious something was troubling the young officer, and being his best friend, Doug felt it was his duty to find out what was causing him to behave so strangely.

Without further hesitation, he hauled himself out of his chair and sauntered over to Tom’s desk. “How ya doin’?” he inquired.

Irritated by the interruption, Tom lowered his hands, his dark eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Fucking peachy,” he replied sarcastically. “You?”

Surprised by Tom’s hostility, Doug’s eyebrows pulled into an affronted frown. “Geez, Hanson, lighten up. So, you and Booker didn’t catch the bad guys. Big deal; it happens.” 

When Tom continued to glare at him, he flashed him a knowing smile. _“I_ know what you need, buddy,” he chuckled with a conspiratorial wink. “Get out that little black book of yours and call the first hot blond on your list. Take her out for dinner, then you invite her back to your place, do the _cha-cha-cha,_ and _presto!_ Tommy’s a happy boy.”

Since his rape, Tom had struggled with feelings of inadequacy, and the thought of making love to a woman further solidified the weight of his emasculation. The very idea of having an erection terrified him, and Penhall’s mocking tone stoked the smoldering fire of resentment burning deep within his soul. Humiliation burned his cheeks, and with eyes blazing, he shoved abruptly back from his desk and stood up. “WHAT I NEED IS FOR YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he yelled. “I’M SICK OF YOUR STUPID JOKES! WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE?”

With hands raised in front of him, Penhall took a step back. “Sure thing, Hanson,” he placated, unsure how his friendly teasing had escalated into an argument. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe you should take it easy for a day or two, you know, until you’re feeling better.”

“Whatever,” Tom muttered, and deciding to take the advice given by both his captain and friend, he pushed past Penhall and headed toward the stairs.


	23. Gambling for Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Penhall’s gaze followed his friend as he exited Fuller’s office. He watched with growing interest as Tom sat down at his desk and stared wistfully at Booker’s empty chair, before resting his elbows on the worn wooden surface and burying his face in his hands. It was obvious something was troubling the young officer, and being his best friend, Doug felt it was his duty to find out what was causing him to behave so strangely._
> 
> _Without further hesitation, he hauled himself out of his chair and sauntered over to Tom’s desk. “How’s it hangin’?” he inquired, keeping his voice light and humorous._
> 
> _Irritated by the interruption, Tom lowered his hands, his dark eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Fucking peachy,” he replied sarcastically. “You?”_
> 
> _Surprised by Tom’s hostility, Doug’s eyebrows pulled into an affronted frown. “Geez, Hanson, lighten up. So, you and Booker didn’t catch the bad guys. Big deal; it happens.”_
> 
> _When Tom continued to glare at him, he flashed him a knowing smile. “I know what you need, buddy,” he chuckled with a conspiratorial wink. “Get out that little black book of yours and call the first hot blond on your list. Take her out for dinner, then you invite her back to your place, do the cha-cha-cha, and presto! Tommy’s a happy boy.”_
> 
> _Since his rape, Tom had struggled with feelings of inadequacy, and the thought of making love to a woman further solidified the weight of his emasculation. The very idea of having an erection terrified him, and Penhall’s mocking tone stoked the smoldering fire of resentment burning deep within his soul. Humiliation burned his cheeks, and with eyes blazing, he shoved abruptly back from his desk and stood up. “WHAT I NEED IS FOR YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he yelled. “I’M SICK OF YOUR STUPID JOKES! WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE?”_
> 
> _With hands raised in front of him, Penhall took a step back. “Sure thing, Hanson,” he placated, unsure how his friendly teasing had escalated into an argument. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe you should take it easy for a day or two, you know, until you’re feeling better.”_
> 
> _“Whatever,” Tom muttered, and deciding to take the advice given by both his captain and friend, he pushed past Penhall and headed toward the stairs._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35928634906/in/dateposted-public/)

A warm spray of water flowed over Booker’s battered flesh, the heat helping soothe the pain radiating throughout his abused body. With a drawn-out sigh, he tilted his head forward and concentrated the steady stream over his aching neck muscles. He had spent the last three hours on his hands and knees, succumbing to each and every one of Holland’s humiliating sexual predilections, the aftermath of which had left him not only feeling demoralized but physically bruised and bleeding. However, despite the degradation he had endured, in his mind, it had all been worth it. His seventy-two-hour ‘contract’ with Holland was complete, and once showered, he would collect his recompense and put the whole sordid experience behind him. He was looking forward to seeing Tom again and presenting him with his hard-fought prize. Although it would not be an easy conversation, he was mentally prepared for it, and he had forged a plan. To spare his new friend any unnecessary feelings of responsibility for his rash and somewhat foolish agreement to surrender his body to Holland in return for the tapes, he would lie as convincingly as possible. Tom was astute, and he ran the risk of his plan backfiring, but he was ninety-nine percent certain the young officer would experience such an overwhelming rush of relief, he would not bother to interrogate him _too_ deeply about the ‘hows’ or ‘whys’. After all, the tapes would be in safe hands, and that was all that mattered.

A sudden draft snaked through the shower curtain, billowing the wet vinyl against Booker’s legs, and lifting his head, his brow knitted with irritation. When the curtain pulled back, he cupped his hand over his exposed genitals and glared angrily at Holland. “No more free peep shows,” he snapped. “I’ve paid my dues, and as soon as I’m showered and dressed, I want those tapes, so I can get the hell out of here and never have to lay eyes on you again.”

Holland’s jade eyes shone with amusement. “Peep show? My dear Dennis, the love we shared was purely consensual, or have you forgotten? You _agreed_ to be my concubinus, and judging by your _explosive_ orgasms, I would say you rather enjoyed our little dalliances.”

Booker had the grace to blush a deep crimson, but, despite his embarrassment, his lip curled into a sneer. _“Love?”_ he mocked with a hollow laugh. “You sick, delusional bastard. You treated me like a whore. What the fuck do _you_ know about love?”

An expression of mild irritation cast a shadow over Holland’s face. He was not used to one of his _playthings_ giving him cheek, and he briefly considered fetching his switch and giving the ungrateful officer the whipping of his life. But another idea quickly formed in his mind, and cleverly disguising the smile that threatened to expose his duplicity, he took a white, Egyptian cotton bath towel from the railing and handed it to Booker. “As much as I would like to debate the _actual_ meaning of love with you, Dennis, I have something much more important to discuss.”

With a snort, Booker turned off the shower, and snatching the towel from Holland’s hand, he wrapped it securely around his waist. He was through bowing down to the mogul’s every demand, and pushing rudely past his antagonist, he walked into the bedroom. “Really?” he scoffed, a look of boredom neutralizing his expression. “What makes you think I’d spend another minute listening to _anything_ you have to say?”

The smile twitching at Holland’s lips slowly manifested, and his eyes clung to Booker’s, eagerly waiting to analyze the young officer’s reaction to his next statement. “Oh, I think you’ll listen. You see, I just had a phone call from Michael McCarter, and it appears he has an itch that needs scratching.”

“An itch?” Booker echoed abruptly. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Then I’ll spell it out for you in words you’ll understand,” Holland smirked. “You see, young McCarter is planning a midnight visit to your beloved Officer Hanson because he wants to—and I quote— _fuck that bitch’s sweet ass until he screams my name_ —end quote.”

The revelation sent a shiver of alarm down Booker’s spine, but he quickly recovered and pushing his dripping hair back from his face, his brow arched skeptically as he unwaveringly held Holland’s gaze. “You’re lying.”

Holland’s grin transformed into a smug sneer. “Am I? Well, my darling boy, I guess only _you_ can decide whether to believe me or not. But considering the stakes, are you _really_ prepared to take a chance?”

A sudden wave of nausea rolled over Booker’s body, leaving him flushed and dizzy. Holland had him by the balls because, despite having serious doubts about the validity of the threat, he could not and _would_ not risk Tom’s personal safety. He felt trapped, like the proverbial fly in a web, but with Holland still grinning at him expectantly, he knew he needed to draw on his inner tenacity and show no fear. Therefore, he squared his shoulders and spoke in a clear, steady voice. “Enough bullshit, Holland. Why don’t you just tell me what it is you want.”

The silent message glinting in Holland’s eyes was clearly sexual, and Booker shifted uncomfortably. He knew what was coming, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he waited to hear the dreaded words.

“Dennis, darling, there’s no need to get testy,” Holland replied in a nauseatingly oleaginous voice, his greedy gaze devouring the erotic sight of Booker’s glistening torso. “I’m trying to _help_ you. I hold a lot of clout with the Pi Taus, and given the right incentive, I _could_ be persuaded to tell McCarter to back off and leave poor Tom alone. But you have to understand, my benevolence comes at a price… a _high_ price. So I guess it all depends on how far you’re prepared to go to protect the man you love.”

Unable to maintain his inner calm any longer, Booker shot Holland a hostile look. “Meaning?”

Holland’s amused laughter filled the room, the sound raising the fine hairs on the back of Booker’s neck. “Oh, you know _exactly_ what I mean, my gorgeous boy. I want to continue to bask in the splendor of your magnificent body… I want you on your hands and knees, begging me for mercy as I fuck you day and night until I’m limp and incapable of fucking you anymore… I want your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock... I want to show you off to my friends, so they too can take pleasure from the artistry that is your divine beauty... Shall I go on, or am I making myself clear?”

Hot bile rose in Booker’s throat, but he quickly swallowed down the vile liquid. “Crystal,” he spat, the foul aftertaste of vomit lingering in his mouth. “You’re blackmailing me, and you’ll continue to blackmail me until you find another sex-toy to keep you amused. Right?”

A genuine look of hurt passed over Holland’s face. “Dennis, my sweet, you have it _all_ wrong. All I’m asking is for another two weeks of your company.”

Cynicism clouded Booker’s eyes. “I don’t believe you, you sonofabitch,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You planned this all along. You never had any intention of giving me the tapes.”

“Au contraire, mon jeune homme,” Holland purred. “As a sign of good faith, I will give the tapes to you now, and when our time together is over, you’ll fall into the arms of your precious Tom, and in his eyes, you'll forever be his hero.”

Booker’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Prove it.”

“As you wish,” Holland replied, and walking over to the replica of Dali’s _‘Christ of St John of the Cross’,_ he flicked a hidden switch, and the painting swung away from the wall, revealing a door and a tumbler lock. His nimble fingers made short work of the combination, and moments later, the wall-safe opened. After moving several concealed items, he pulled out two VHS tapes and held them up triumphantly. “Do you want to view them?” he asked brightly, a flicker of malice glinting in his emerald eyes. “They’re rather fun, especially the _non-_ edited version.”

Although Booker’s stomach churned at the thought of reliving Tom’s rape, he knew he needed to make sure the tapes were genuine. “Play it,” he instructed, the muscles in his shoulders tensing in apprehension.

“As you wish,” Holland grinned, and moving lithely across the room, he inserted one of the tapes into the VCR unit that sat on a shelf in the bedroom’s small entertainment center and switched on the television.

Tom’s frightened faced filled the twenty-six-inch screen, his panicked gaze frantically flitting from left to right. Suddenly, his eyes bulged, a look of shock replacing his fearful expression. “DENNIS, DON’T!” he screamed.

Loud cheering sounded through the TV’s speakers, and Booker watched in horror as the camera panned down, revealing a side-on view of him enthusiastically sucking on Tom’s cock. Tears filled his eyes, and he covered his ears so he would not have to hear Hanson’s terrified voice crying, _“Stop, Dennis! Oh, God! Please stop! Don’t! Don’t! DON’T!”_

“ENOUGH!” Booker yelled, his voice choking with emotion, and spinning around, he stumbled into the bathroom. Guilt swirled inside him, and when his midriff collided with the edge of the hand basin, he clasped hold of the cold ceramic, and with an ab-clenching heave, he retched violently into the bowl. Heat prickled the back of his neck, and not trusting the strength in his legs, he remained stooped over the sink, a silvery thread of spittle dripping from between his lips, the sound of Tom’s screams echoing in his ears. Reliving the horror in full color had ripped open his soul, releasing his cleverly suppressed guilt, and he was now drowning in a torrent of shameful remorse. He had betrayed Tom in the most despicable way possible, and he was sure to burn in hell for his sins.

A warm hand touched his shoulder, and lifting his head, he wiped the spittle from his mouth and stared with dead eyes into the gilt-edged mirror. When he saw Holland’s face reflected next to his own, he struggled to suppress his tears. “Why are you doing this to us?” he whispered.

Although his psychopathy made him genetically incapable of feeling empathy, Holland managed to transform his features into a passable impression of a man living with regrets. “My dear, dear, Dennis,” he soothed, his hand moving in a circular motion over the smooth skin of Booker’s back. “Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. It’s nothing personal; actually, I rather like you. But I have this _need…_ no, it’s more of an _inherent_ obligation to the Pi Taus to put you in your place. Did you honestly think you could infiltrate one of the most prestigious fraternities in America and disclose our sacred secrets without fear of reprisal? Of course not, or if you did, you now know better because I’m here to show you who _really_ governs this country, and it’s not the police or the politicians. It’s the respected alumni of the distinguished universities who have the control, Dennis, and that means me. Therefore, if you refuse my _invitation,_ rest assured, your beloved Tom _will_ suffer the consequences.”

Defeat dulled the remaining spark in Booker’s eyes, and he lowered his gaze to the stinking mess coating the sink. “Okay,” he conceded softly. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just promise me no one will hurt Tom.”

With a zeal that portrayed the indubitable nature of his sins, Holland slowly unwrapped the towel from around Booker’s waist and let it fall to the floor. “I promise, my beautiful boy,” he murmured, and slipping an arm around his enslaved lover’s waist, his skillful fingers gently caressed the young officer’s cock. “Now, I have a surprise for you. Please follow me.”

Being careful to avoid the mocking existence of his spiritless reflection, Booker obediently accompanied Holland into the bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room, much like he had on the first day, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do, and it took several moments of quiet introspection before his mind finally refocused on Holland. With growing trepidation, he watched as the Pi Tau patriarch retrieved a narrow box from a shelf in the closet. Tension built in his muscles, reawakening the pain from his injuries, and he shifted nervously. However, when Holland pulled a blue silk bow tie from the packaging, his agitation soon turned to confusion. 

“Put this on,” the Keymaster instructed softly, the excited gleam in his eyes revealing his growing arousal.

Bewildered by the command, Booker’s fisted hands remained by his side. “Where’s the suit?” he asked innocently.

Holland’s lips pulled back into a lecherous grin, revealing his perfectly even teeth. “You’re wearing it.”

When Booker’s expression remained blank, Holland rolled his eyes in frustration and stepping forward, he clamped his hand around the young officer’s cock. “It’s a joke, you dolt,” he snapped, his patience wearing thin. “You’re wearing your _birthday_ suit, get it?” 

Booker winced, but fearing further injury, he remained where he was standing. “You want me to wear _just_ a bow tie?” he queried, the ridiculousness of the request making him blush. “Why would you ask me to do that?”

The tip of Holland’s tongue traced a lascivious trail over his lips. “Because, my darling boy, I want you to look your best. You see, tonight I am entertaining some very influential clients, and not only will you be the waiter, but you will also be the entertainment.”

And it was then Booker realized he was in serious trouble.


	24. Dinner and a Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I found this chapter extremely hard to write. Even though I created Holland, I absolutely detest him, and the thought of him touching Booker makes me want to vomit. It's rather strange because I created Mosco in "Chasing a Butterfly", and yet, despite all the horrible things he did to Tom, I actually liked him. Weird!**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: A warm hand touched his shoulder, and lifting his head, he wiped the spittle from his mouth and stared with dead eyes into the gilt-edged mirror. When he saw Holland’s face reflected next to his own, he struggled to suppress his tears. “Why are you doing this to us?” he whispered._
> 
> _Although his psychopathy made him genetically incapable of feeling empathy, Holland managed to transform his features into a passable impression of a man living with regrets. “My dear, dear, Dennis,” he soothed, his hand moving in a circular motion over the smooth skin of Booker’s back. “Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. It’s nothing personal; actually, I rather like you. But I have this need… no, it’s more of an inherent obligation to the Pi Taus to put you in your place. Did you honestly think you could infiltrate one of the most prestigious fraternities in America and disclose our sacred secrets without fear of reprisal? Of course not, or if you did, you now know better because I’m here to show you who really governs this country, and it’s not the police or the politicians. It’s the respected alumni of the distinguished universities who have the control, Dennis, and that means me. Therefore, if you refuse my invitation, rest assured, your beloved Tom will suffer the consequences.”_
> 
> _Defeat dulled the remaining spark in Booker’s eyes, and he lowered his gaze to the stinking mess coating the sink. “Okay,” he conceded softly. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just promise me no one will hurt Tom.”_
> 
> _With a zeal that portrayed the indubitable nature of his sins, Holland slowly unwrapped the towel from around Booker’s waist and let it fall to the floor. “I promise, my beautiful boy,” he murmured, and slipping an arm around his enslaved lover’s waist, his skillful fingers gently caressed the young officer’s cock. “Now, I have a surprise for you. Please follow me.”_
> 
> _Being careful to avoid the mocking existence of his spiritless reflection, Booker obediently accompanied Holland into the bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room, much like he had on that first day, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do, and it took several moments of quiet introspection before his mind finally refocused on Holland. With growing trepidation, he watched as the Pi Tau patriarch retrieved a narrow box from a shelf in the closet. Tension built in his muscles, reawakening the pain from his injuries, and he shifted nervously. However, when Holland pulled a blue silk bow tie from the packaging, his agitation soon turned to confusion._
> 
> _“Put this on,” the Keymaster instructed softly, the excited gleam in his eyes revealing his growing arousal._
> 
> _Bewildered by the command, Booker’s fisted hands remained by his side. “Where’s the suit?” he asked innocently._
> 
> _Holland’s lips pulled back into a lecherous grin, revealing his perfectly even teeth. “You’re wearing it.”_
> 
> _When Booker’s expression remained blank, Holland rolled his eyes in frustration and stepping forward, he clamped his hand around the young officer’s cock. “It’s a joke, you dolt,” he snapped, his patience wearing thin. “You’re wearing your birthday suit, get it?”_
> 
> _Booker winced, but fearing further injury, he remained where he was standing. “You want me to wear just a bow tie?” he queried, the ridiculousness of the request making him blush. “Why would you ask me to do that?”_
> 
> _The tip of Holland’s tongue traced a lasciviously over his lips. “Because, my darling boy, I want you to look your best. You see, tonight I am entertaining some very influential clients, and not only will you be the waiter, but you will also be the entertainment.”_
> 
> _And it was then Booker realized he was in serious trouble._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35130096364/in/dateposted-public/)

Booker stood with his back to the wall, his arms held rigidly at his sides as per Holland’s instructions. Clothed only in the silk bow tie, the conscious awareness of his nakedness had him cringing with shame. Six pairs of eyes feasted hungrily on his naked flesh, their probing gaze heating his face, and as the long minutes ticked by, he could feel his self-esteem slowly ebbing away. Through clever manipulation, Holland had reduced his status from competent cop to worthless whore, and the idea that someone could have such a coercive power over him was not only aggravating, it was also soul-destroying. He was a piece of meat, his body placed on display for the sexual gratification of the mogul’s dinner guests, and he could not help but wonder if protecting Tom made the ordeal worth the degradation. His inner voice loudly argued that Hanson was a grown man, a competent police officer who was more than capable of taking care of himself. But whenever he closed his eyes, the painful memory of Hanson’s terrified face screaming for him to _please stop,_ ripped a bloody hole in his heart, and he knew he would walk through the fiery lakes of hell to help his friend. Whether he liked it or not, Tom was his Achilles’ heel, and he would do everything in his power to keep him out of harm’s way.

The sound of laughter pulled Dennis from his thoughts, and with a slight shake of his head, he refocused his gaze. Jorge stood at the opposite side of the dining table, his stance mirroring the young officer’s stiff posture. However, unlike Booker, his face bore no discernible signs of embarrassment. With his vacant eyes staring blankly in front of him, he reminded Dennis of the heroin addicts who haunted the alleyways of downtown L.A., and the officer wondered if drugs had numbed the Latino's mind, or if he had just become immune to the degradation due to excessive exposure. It was evident Jorge had made the choice to obey his master, the consequence of his decision sealing his fate and exposing him to untold suffering at the hands of the unscrupulous tycoon. However, what remained unclear was just how long he had submitted to the nefarious treatment. By Booker’s calculation, he was in his late teens, and the idea the pool boy could have experienced sexual abuse while still at school was both nauseating and infuriating. But Holland was a monster, and given Jorge’s looks and physique, Booker knew it was highly likely he had groomed the innocent boy with offers of money and expensive gifts. After all, it was extremely easy to coerce young, socially disadvantaged children with promises of a better life, especially for someone with Holland’s well-polished, charismatic charm. Poor Jorge would have been putty in the magnate’s hands. He would not have stood a chance.

“Dennis!”

Upon hearing his name, Booker turned his head and scowled at Holland. _“What?”_ he asked sullenly.

A sinister expression darkened Holland’s face, the look pressing his full lips into a firm line. _“What_ is not an answer, Dennis. You will address me with the respect I so rightly deserve, or I might find myself inclined to make a phone call to Michael McCarter. Do we understand each other?”

Holland’s hubristic expression reminded Booker of a cartoon super villain. The barefaced effrontery of the man made his skin bristle, and through sheer determination alone, he forcefully contained his steadily rising rancor. At that moment, nothing would have pleased him more than to feel his adversary’s bones splinter beneath the force of his fist. But if he were to protect Tom, he knew he needed to swallow his pride and play the game, otherwise, he faced an even heavier burden of guilt. 

And so, as much as it pained him to do so, he submissively lowered his gaze and spoke in what he hoped was a tone heavy with contrition. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

But Holland was nobody’s fool, and he saw straight through Booker’s weak performance. Immediately, a dangerous glint lit up his eyes, and his lip curled into a malevolent sneer. “I think it’s time for some entertainment, don’t you, gentlemen?” he addressed his distinguished looking companions. “Any suggestions?”

The man sitting to Holland’s right leaned in and whispered something to his host, a rakish smile pulling at his thin lips. He exuded an air of aristocracy, his black Dolce and Gabbana suit fitting his slender frame perfectly. On his wrist, a gold Rolex watch winked in the light from the overhead chandelier, each tiny flash publicly affirming the excesses of his wealth. Although in his sixties, his complexion had the smoothness of a man fifteen years his junior, and all-in-all, he cut a dashing figure. But looks could be deceiving, and beneath the suave exterior lurked a cruel, dominant man intent on causing pain to those he viewed as inferior.

Unimpressed by _Mister Dolce and Gabbana’s_ affluent demeanor, Booker’s eyes remained fixed on Holland. Over the last three days, he had become quite adept at reading the older man’s body language, and he stared intently into the narrowed eyes. The chips of emerald ice glinted cruelly, reflecting the coldness of the mogul’s heart, and a chill ran under Booker’s skin. The dark-haired officer immediately cast a worried glance at Jorge, but the younger man appeared unperturbed by the unexpected turn of events, his heavily-lidded, depthless stare giving nothing away. Whatever horrors the Latino had experienced at the hands of Holland’s associates remained concealed behind the lifeless eyes, his shame forever secreted from the rest of the world, and Dennis doubted if anyone knew of the torment he had suffered.

With growing trepidation, Booker’s concerned gaze flitted back to Holland. Their eyes met, and the tycoon’s mouth rippled into a predatory grin. “Jorge, honey,” he intoned pleasantly, his sharp, penetrating gaze remaining fixed on Booker’s face. “Be a good boy and stand next to Dennis.”

At the sound of his name, a spark of life registered in Jorge’s eyes, and he walked around the rectangular table and stood compliantly in front of the dark-haired officer. Booker drew in a deep, shaky breath, and his flesh quivered as he fought to control the stirring within his groin. With the attractive Latino’s perfect body only inches from his own, his eyes roved over the naked flesh, unconsciously absorbing every little detail. From head to toe, Jorge was a masterpiece of perfection, a sculptor's living, breathing fantasy. But it was the young man’s impressive appendage Booker found himself drawn to, and his gaze lingered a little too long on the smooth, mushroom-shaped head before he remembered the other men in the room, and he quickly tore his eyes away.

A soft tinkle of laughter added to his embarrassment, and he lowered his head in shame. “Ah,” Holland crooned. “I see you are as affected by young Jorge’s magnificent cock as we are, dear Dennis. But don’t feel inadequate, yours is just as tantalizing. In fact, my honored guests would like to see just _how_ tantalizing.”

Unable to maintain his inner cool any longer, Booker stepped past Jorge, and covering his genitals with his hands, he threw Holland what he hoped was a devil-may-care look. “You know what, Holland? You may think you’re all that, but you’re not. Newsflash, asshole, I’m not scared of you. Yeah, I made a stupid decision by agreeing to prostitute myself to you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll humiliate myself in front of your friends. The deal’s off. I’m taking the tapes and going home, and if you or any of your sick Pi Tau associates _ever_ contact Tom or me again, there’ll be hell to pay. So here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, do _you_ understand _me,_ shit-for-brains?”

Holland’s smug smile instantly vanished, replaced by a seething anger that colored his face a dark crimson. Abruptly pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet, the violent motion sending his cloth napkin fluttering to the floor. The fury uncoiling within him stiffened his limbs, giving him a Frankenstein-like appearance that would have been laughable if the situation were not so serious, and narrowing his eyes, he glared at the insolent officer. “Do you think I’m _playing_ with you, boy?” he hissed, his voice low and threatening. “All it’ll take is one phone call, and your precious Tom will find a _dozen_ Pi Taus on his doorstep, all looking for a good time. Got it?”

Booker’s stomach rolled with indecision, but outwardly, he remained stoic. “Bullshit,” he challenged. “McCarter and the others may _think_ they got away with rape, but they’re not stupid enough to risk getting caught a second time, and not even _you_ have the power to convince them otherwise.”

For the first time since arriving at the dining room, Jorge showed signs of life. His eyes flitted nervously from Booker to Holland and back again as he watched the power play unfold. Although brainwashed into obedience by Holland, he secretly hoped Booker would, at the very least, win one round, thereby proving to the arrogant tycoon once and for all that despite his perception, he was not, in fact, a God. However, the odds did not look good, and his brow furrowed in a worried frown.

“Is that what you _really_ think?” Holland asked in a soft, alluring voice. When Booker cocked a contemptuous eyebrow in answer, the mogul’s face darkened and walking over to a Queen Anne style mahogany tea table situated in the corner of the room, he motioned toward the telephone. “Shall I call McCarter and find out?”

Uncertainty raised the fine hairs on Booker’s arms, but he retained his composure. “Sure,” he replied with a matter-of-fact shrug of his shoulders. “Let’s see what the small-dicked prick has to say.”

Someone at the table snorted, their amusement evident by the mocking resonance of the sound, but Holland’s expression remained grim, and picking up the phone’s receiver, he dialed a number. Several long seconds passed before he spoke, and all seven pairs of ears tuned in to listen to what he had to say.

“Michael?” he inquired, a self-satisfied smile curling the corners of his lips. “It’s Ingram Holland. Our dear friend, Dennis, has forced our hand. Please set _Operation Officer_ in motion. Yes, yes, he's calling our bluff, so it’s time to show him—”

“Wait!” Booker cried out, and with all thoughts of protecting his modesty now forgotten, he rushed over to the older man’s side and grasped his arm. “Okay, I believe you. I’ll do whatever you want, just promise me no one will hurt Tommy.”

A wicked glint lit up Holland’s eyes. “Stand down until further instruction,” he muttered into the phone, and placing the receiver back on the cradle, he reached out and lovingly stroked the tip of Booker’s cock with his thumb. “That’s a very sage decision, my sweet, beautiful boy. Now, enough talk, let’s have some fun.”

With no other option left but to give in to Holland’s demands, Dennis’ shoulders slumped, and he silently waited for instructions. A click of Holland’s fingers brought Jorge to his side, and without waiting for direction, the young Latino dropped obediently to his knees. “Suck him,” the magnate commanded softly. “But don’t let him come… yet.”

Booker immediately screwed his eyes closed and with each jagged, expectant breath, he felt a little piece of his soul die. Warm hands grasped his hips, and when Jorge’s lips made contact with his cock, he covered his face with his hands, hiding the shame that flamed his cheeks. Although he could not see them, he was acutely aware of the eager audience sitting in their chairs, enthusiastically taking in the show, and he willed his body not to react. But as Jorge’s mouth moved up and down his thickening shaft, he knew it was a futile gesture. He was physically unprepared for the skilled artistry of the soft lips that eagerly engulfed him and unable to control his growing needs, his lower body bucked forward, forcing his cock further into the hot, willing mouth. A low groan of approval spilled from his lips, and lowering his hands, he entwined his fingers in the younger man’s dark hair. _“Yesss,”_ he breathed, his hips thrusting rhythmically in a sensual, private dance of lust and longing. “Fuck yes.”

The tip of Holland’s tongue darted out from between his lips, a look of enthrallment animating his features. “Slowly, my sweet angel,” he tutored softly. “Take your time.”

A tall, lanky man with sparse gray hair stood up, his arousal evident by the tenting in his pants. “C’mon, Ingram, enough playing around. I want to fuck that spick’s firm, tight ass.”

Offended by the crudity of the statement, Holland threw the man a withering look. “Sit down, Beasley,” he commanded in a gruff voice. “We’ve got all night, and I want my two beautiful boys to get to know each other. After all, they’re going to be spending a lot of time in each other’s company.”

With the titillating thrill of fellatio sending nerve-jangling jolts of rapturous pleasure throughout his body, Booker barely registered the underlining meaning of Holland’s words. His blood ran hot through his veins, and with little regard for Jorge, he selfishly allowed his mind to escape into the euphoric world of self-gratification. “Harder,” he moaned, his fingers tangling in the pool boy’s lustrous, shoulder length hair. “Suck me harder.”

A twinkle of arousal illuminated Holland’s eyes. Booker’s cock was fully erect, the blood-engorged veins now showing prominently along the length of his thick shaft, and stepping behind him, Holland gently caressed his firm buttocks. “Talk to me, my sweet,” he murmured against Booker’s ear. “Do you like Jorge sucking your cock.”

Booker was now in a sexually induced dreamlike state. In his mind, it was Tom’s tender, pliant lips wrapped around him, giving him the pleasure he so desperately craved, and his answer tumbled from his lips without thought. “Yes,” he breathed. “God, yes.”

Now that he had Booker exactly where he wanted him, Holland motioned to _Mister Tall and Lanky._ “He’s all yours, Robert.”

A fiendish grin stretched the corners of Robert Beasley’s mouth. The moment he had been waiting for had arrived, and kicking off his shoes, he unbuttoned his trousers and let the neatly pressed material crumple to the floor. He quickly pushed down his shorts, and stepping out of the discarded clothing, he dropped to his knees and took his position behind Jorge. 

“Lube?” Holland asked casually as if all he was offering was a cup of tea.

Beasley nodded, and Holland tossed him a tube of lubrication. After liberally coating his cock, he tossed it back. “Aren’t you going to join in?” he inquired politely.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Holland replied pleasantly, and releasing his cock, he applied lubrication to his erect shaft before tossing the tube to the floor.

Oblivious to the courteous banter taking place around him, Booker’s eyes flew open in surprise when the tip of Holland’s slick finger pressed against him. “What the—”

“Shhh,” Holland whispered into his ear. “Relax and enjoy the ride, dear Dennis. I promise you, this will be an experience you’ll never forget.”

“I-I...” Booker stammered, but the misgivings in his heart instantly vanished when Holland’s slick finger pushed inside him, filling his emptiness. Beasley immediately followed suit, eliciting a groan from Jorge that resonated sensually around Booker’s cockhead. “Jesus,” the young officer hissed, and as Holland’s finger worked its magic, a tremor shuddered throughout his body. “Oh, Jesus.” 

Holland grinned like a man possessed, and withdrawing his finger, he focused his attention on Beasley. “Ready?”

Robert Beasley nodded, and removing his finger, he dropped to his knees and pressed the tip of his cock against Jorge’s anus. “On the count of three?” he inquired with a smile.

“Of course,” Holland laughed, and positioning his cock against Booker’s entrance, he counted down in a singsong voice. “One… two… _THREE!”_

There was no teasing prelude, just a forceful thrust, and Holland’s cock buried deep inside Booker’s anus, the tip slamming into his prostate. _“FUUUCK!”_ the young officer yelled, his fingers ripping at Jorge’s hair. The double stimulation ignited a fiery ball inside his genitals, and thrusting his hips forward, his eyes gorged on the erotic sight of Beasley’s cock sliding in and out of the young Latino’s ass. Every nerve in his body screamed with pleasure, and abandoning any semblance of control, his body jerked forward, and a husky, sexual mantra exploded in a heavy pant from between his lips. “Ahh ahh ahh ahh…”

Jorge grunted, his sun-kissed flesh quivering with a mixture of pleasure and pain. Booker’s juices coated his tongue, the intoxicating sapidity heightening his arousal, and pre-cum bubbled from his slit. He longed to fondle himself, to slide his hand up and down his burgeoning erection, but he knew better. Touching was strictly forbidden, and to openly defy the rules resulted in excruciating pain at the hands of his master. Therefore, it was better to abstain than face the wrath of a psychopathic lunatic.

The smell of sex permeated the room, the musky, testosterone-based scent fueling the men’s sexual appetites. Three of the four men still seated at the table openly masturbated, their hands unconsciously falling into a libidinous rhythm born from years of shared experience. The fourth man’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the Waterford crystal wine glass grasped in his hand, his expression unreadable. But his dinner companions more than made up for his lack of enthusiastic participation, the discord of their breathless grunts releasing into the atmosphere, adding to the heaviness in the air.

Holland’s warm breath tickled the back of Booker’s neck. “You like it, don’t you, whore,” he whispered, a tinkle of laughter coloring his voice. “You get off watching Beasley fucking another worthless whore while I fuck you up the ass, don’t you? Or is it fucking the whore’s mouth that gets you hot under the collar?” 

“Fuck fuck fuck…” Booker chanted by way of reply, his raging libido suffocating all cognitive thought.

With his fingernails digging painfully into Booker’s hips, leaving tiny crescent moons in their wake, Holland continued to taunt the young officer. “Come for me, bitch,” he wheezed, his cock sliding in and out at a rapid pace. “Fill that fucker’s mouth.”

“Oh, God,” Booker groaned. “I wanna I wanna I wanna I… _AHHH!”_

Warm semen shot into the back of Jorge’s throat, and swallowing deeply, he eagerly consumed Booker’s offering. Seconds later, Beasley released a primal yell, his orgasm shooting forth with bone-shaking force. With Dennis’ softening cock still filling his mouth, Jorge moaned loudly, and without any further stimulation, he climaxed, his juices splattering the officer’s legs. Only Holland continued his frantic thrusting, his determination to outlast everyone else suppressing his urge to ejaculate. But when his three seated compatriots shuddered out their release, he surrendered to his desires, and with a long, drawn out moan, he shot his seed deep inside Booker’s quivering body.

Heavy breathing cut through the airless room. The four men remained conjoined, their cocks linking them together in an artist’s erotic sculpture. Eventually, Holland withdrew from Booker’s throbbing body, which in turn allowed the officer to release his cock from Jorge’s mouth. Beasley remained inside Jorge’s anus for another few seconds before shuffling back and releasing his cock, sending a river of semen and blood trickling down the younger man’s tanned thighs, the sight validating the level of abuse.

Ashamed of his wanton behavior, Booker dropped to his knees, and cupping the Latino’s beautiful face in his hand, he tenderly caressed the soft skin with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he choked, his desperate eyes filling with tears. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Jorge smiled, the tempting curve of his mouth drawing Booker in, and placing his hand behind the younger man’s neck, the dark-haired officer gently pulled him forward, and brushed his lips over the enticing full pout. He had barely made contact when his head snapped violently backward, and a stiff hand delivered a stinging slap to his face. With a cry of pain, he raised his arms and tried to ward off the blows, but Holland continued his vicious attack, his fists raining heavy punches over Booker’s back and shoulders. “YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!” he screamed, his face twisting into a frightening mask of impending lunacy. “HOW DARE YOU KISS HIM! HOW DARE YOU!” 

Frightened by the physicality of the onslaught, Jorge scuttled away to a safe corner of the room. Beasley and the other men watched on with mild interest, all except _Mister Waterford Crystal,_ who sat hunched in his chair, his fingers tightly gripping his now empty wine glass. Left to defend himself, Booker attempted to rise to his feet, but Holland was now a man insane, and grabbing the telephone off the table, he swung it at the officer’s head. 

With a sickening crack, the heavy ceramic phone struck Booker’s temple. His vision blurred, and falling to the floor, he fought to stay conscious as the room spun before him. Blood poured from the wound above his eye, and wincing in pain, his fingers explored his damaged flesh. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins, and drawing in a deep breath, he attempted to rise using the wall for support, his hand leaving bloody streaks on the cream paint. But a bout of nausea weakened his limbs, and his legs buckled, sending him crumpling back to the floor with a cry of pain. Despite his confused state, he knew he was in serious trouble, and drawing on his inner strength, he desperately tried to overcome his affliction. But his injury was too severe, and with his will to fight slowly ebbing away, he closed his eyes and slipped toward the welcoming darkness.


	25. Tommy, Can You Hear Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Heavy breathing cut through the airless room. The four men remained conjoined, their cocks linking them together in an artist’s erotic sculpture. Eventually, Holland withdrew from Booker’s throbbing body, which in turn allowed the officer to release his cock from Jorge’s mouth. Beasley remained inside Jorge’s anus for another few seconds before stepping back and releasing his cock, sending a river of semen and blood trickling down the younger man’s tanned thighs, the sight validating the level of abuse._
> 
> _Ashamed of his wanton behavior, Booker dropped to his knees, and cupping the Latino’s beautiful face in his hand, he tenderly caressed the soft skin with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he choked, his desperate eyes filling with tears. “I’m so fucking sorry.”_
> 
> _Jorge smiled, the tempting curve of his mouth drawing Booker in, and placing his hand behind the younger man’s neck, the dark-haired officer gently pulled him forward, and brushed his lips over the enticing full pout. He had barely made contact when his head snapped violently backward, and a stiff hand delivered a stinging slap to his face. With a cry of pain, he raised his arms and tried to ward off the blows, but Holland continued his vicious attack, his fists raining heavy punches over Booker’s back and shoulders. “YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!” he screamed, his face twisting into a frightening mask of impending lunacy. “HOW DARE YOU KISS HIM! HOW DARE YOU!”_
> 
> _Frightened by the physicality of the onslaught, Jorge scuttled away to a safe corner of the room. Beasley and the other men watched on with mild interest, all except Mr. Waterford Crystal, who sat hunched in his chair, his fingers tightly gripping his now empty wine glass. Left to defend himself, Booker attempted to rise to his feet, but Holland was now a man insane, and grabbing the telephone off the table, he swung it at the officer’s head._
> 
> _With a sickening crack, the heavy ceramic phone struck Booker’s temple. His vision blurred, and falling to the floor, he fought to stay conscious as the room spun before him. Blood poured from the wound above his eye, and wincing in pain, his fingers explored his damaged flesh. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins, and drawing in a deep breath, he attempted to rise using the wall for support, his hand leaving bloody streaks on the cream paint. But a bout of nausea weakened his limbs, and his legs buckled, sending him crumpling back to the floor with a cry of pain. Despite his confused state, he knew he was in serious trouble, and drawing on his inner strength, he desperately tried to overcome his affliction. But his injury was too severe, and with his will to fight slowly ebbing away, he closed his eyes and slipped toward the welcoming darkness.  
> _

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35837394951/in/dateposted-public/)

After the attack, Jorge had obediently taken himself back to the pool house, the memory of Booker’s kiss lingering on his lips. The fifteen-hundred square foot building was his home, and he spent each and every day locked within its walls until summoned by Holland to perform sexual favors or menial chores. Since agreeing to _work_ for Ingram three years ago, the isolation had dramatically changed his personality, and he no longer spent time with his family or friends. He was an outcast, and Holland and his associates were his only company. His daily life consisted of brutal sex games and sadistic punishments, but after so many years trapped in a cycle of abuse, his mind had adjusted, and he no longer felt the need to escape the barbarous situation he found himself living in. He was a product of his environment, a willing participant, and therefore, he felt little emotion when witnessing the evil that took place behind the walls of Casa de Holland. It was all part of the mogul’s clever indoctrination into the world of sex, rape, and murder. Through years of systematic abuse, he was now immune to the violence. He was a silent observer, and rightly or wrongly, he had learned very quickly that self-preservation was his number-one priority. 

However, all that had changed when Booker arrived. Because of his isolation, Jorge was now wary of people his own age, but Booker had been an exception, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to the charismatic young officer. Of course, he had only observed him from a distance; Holland had cunningly kept them apart until the evening of the dinner party. Witnessing two strangers copulate was all part of the thrill for the members of the _Shadow Society_ , and Jorge had lost count of the number of erotic encounters he had participated in with the young men Holland lured to the house. At the age of nineteen, he was sexually experienced beyond his years, and he knew how to please a man. He had never been with a woman, and although curious, he did not feel any attraction toward the female maids in Holland’s employ. Whether by intervention or design, he considered himself homosexual, and in his opinion, Dennis was the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on; he was his fantasy come true.

Yawning loudly, Jorge forewent the healing properties of a long, hot shower, opting instead for the comfort of his bed. As he drifted off to sleep, visions of Booker flooded his mind. Being blessed with a beautiful face was not always a godsend, and he hoped the dark-haired Adonis would not meet an untimely death at the hands of his master; unlike the many men before him.

**

Holland raised a hand as the last car exited his property, and walking back into the house, he closed the front door and punched the alarm’s security code into the keypad on the wall. The buzz of adrenaline he felt after the excitement of the night’s events was slowly fading, and his home now seemed empty and cold. But there was still one piece of business to take care of before he retired for the evening, and with a sigh, he walked back into the dining room and stopped beside the naked form sprawled on the floor.

Light from the crystal chandelier shone down on Booker’s face, illuminating the paleness of his skin. Although on the floor, the relaxed position of his body could have fooled a casual observer into believing he was sleeping peacefully. With his head resting on his left arm, he lay half on his stomach half on his side, his right leg bent at the knee. Only the semen coating his thighs and the blood seeping into the intricately woven ornate rug beneath his head revealed the true nature of the crime, the fleur-de-lis pattern forever tainted by the violence that had occurred just minutes before.

A moue of disdain puckered Holland’s lips, and without showing any regard for Booker’s condition, he prodded him with the toe of his eight-hundred-dollar Armani shoe. When the officer’s eyes remained closed, he squatted down and gave him a sharp poke in the ribs. “Wakey, wakey, Denny-boy,” he growled. “You’re bleeding all over my two-thousand-dollar rug.”

Although still unconscious, Booker’s mind registered the jab, and slowly rising from the darkness, his eyelids fluttered ever so slightly and a low moan rumbled in his throat. Not known for his patience, Holland decided on a more proactive approach, and reaching down, he grasped Booker’s flaccid penis in his hand and squeezed.

Heat flared throughout the officer’s body, the pain releasing him from the fog blanketing his mind. His eyes flew open, a look of fear reflecting from his dark irises, and as he fought against his paralysis, he struggled to find his voice. “Whaaa…”

Amusement twisted Holland’s lips into a cruel sneer. “I should have known touching your cock would wake you up,” he taunted. “You really are a whore, aren’t you?”

Confused by the statement, Booker attempted to clear his addled mind. Slowly, the memory of his participation in a wanton foursome with Holland, Jorge, and Beasley resurfaced, bringing forth tears of shame, and pushing himself up to a sitting position, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, _shit.”_

The moan of regret was muffled against Booker’s palms, but Holland easily interpreted the sentiment behind the sound and snorting with a fiendish delight, he stood up and cast a withering look at the officer’s bowed head. “Get up you sniveling whore. Lupita needs to clean up your mess.”

With his self-esteem at an all-time low, Booker longed to crawl into bed and put the horrors of the day behind him. He staggered to his feet, but the dull pain thumping behind his left eye caused him to sway unsteadily, and he grabbed the back of the nearest chair for support.

“HANDS!” Holland yelled, and jerking forward, he grabbed Booker’s wrist and roughly yanked his hand away. Shocked by the reaction, the young officer groggily stared at his fingers, and he was surprised to see blood covering his shaking digits. A spasm of nausea churned through his stomach, bringing the contents of his last meal into his throat. He managed to swallow down the vomit, but perspiration prickled his upper lip, and his body shuddered as he fought to control the queasiness.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes squinting against the harshness of the overhead light. “I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Holland interrupted in a cold voice. “You broke the rules tonight, boy, and for that, you can sleep in the _oubliette.”_

Although well educated, Booker had no idea what _oubliette_ meant, and he stared blankly at Holland for several seconds before slowly repeating the word. “The oub-li _-ette?”_

“That’s right, you ignorant ass, the oubliette. It’s an underground room I had installed especially for disobedient whores like you. Maybe spending an uncomfortable night sleeping on a cold stone floor will help you repent of your sins.”

Despite feeling increasingly unwell, Booker tried desperately to comprehend the meaning of Holland’s words. “Sins?” he echoed in a shaky voice. “What sins?”

Without warning, Holland stepped forward and screamed directly into the young officer's bewildered face. “YOU KISSED HIM, YOU STUPID PRICK! NOBODY KISSES HIM EXCEPT ME! GOT IT?”

Booker instinctively shrank away, but the force of Holland’s words continued to ring painfully in his aching head and protecting his ears with his hands, he started to moan. “Oh, _God”_

Annoyance registered in Holland’s eyes, and grabbing Booker by the wrist, he dragged him across the room. “God won’t help you, you stupid bitch,” he snarled. “In his eyes, you’re nothing but a filthy slut.”

With the deleterious effects of his concussion becoming more apparent with each passing minute, Booker was incapable of fighting back. His vision blurred, and as he struggled to remain upright, he watched through narrowed eyes as Holland pulled back a rug by the window, revealing a hidden trapdoor built into the floorboards. The mogul grabbed the metal handle, and yanking open the hatch, he motioned toward the gaping hole in the floor. “Get in.”

Booker stared down into the inky blackness of the dungeon, and tottering unsteadily on his feet, he staggered backward. “I can’t,” he groaned, “I’ll fall.”

“I SAID... GET... _IN!”_ Holland yelled, and grabbing Booker by the shoulders, he forcefully shoved him down the narrow steps.”

The cry of surprise that spilled from Booker’s lips quickly transformed into a terrified scream as he tumbled head first down the staircase. He had no time to break his fall, and he hit the cement floor with a loud _oomph,_ the impact twisting his body as pain flared in his left shoulder.

“Sleep tight,” Holland laughed, and without further commentary, he slammed the hatch closed, plunging the small room into darkness.

Rolling onto his back, Booker exhaled a loud groan of pain. He stared up into the blackness, inhaling deeply in a desperate attempt to control the rising nausea that threatened to swamp him. Eventually, his heart rate slowed, and with a grunt, he pushed himself into a sitting position. A narrow beam of light shone through a small barred window, and after giving his eyes time to adjust to the dimness, he took in his surroundings.

The cell measured approximately twelve feet square, its walls and floor constructed out of uneven slabs of stone, the tapered window situated just below the ceiling the only other feature in the dank room. However, escape was not an option; even if he managed to dislodge the bars, the window was far too small for him to crawl through without becoming stuck. Once he realized he was trapped, the debilitating onset of claustrophobia stifled him, painfully compressing his lungs. Raw panic paralyzed his limbs; he could not move, could not think, could not breathe. He was as helpless as a fish out of water, his mouth gaping uselessly as he struggled to draw in a much-needed breath. But just as he felt himself fading, his survival instincts kicked in, and he gasped loudly. Oxygen flooded his air-starved body, reviving his muscles and brain, and dropping to his hands and knees, he continued to pull the life-giving gas into his lungs. Several long minutes passed before he felt stable enough to stagger to his feet, and using the wall as support, he pulled himself upright. He immediately wrapped his stiff fingers around the cold iron bars and stared out of the arrow slit window. Wispy clouds shadowed the light cast by the waning gibbous moon, and breathing in the cool night air, his dark, sorrowful eyes stared up at the faintly illuminated celestial body. “Tommy,” he choked, a warm trail of tears streaming freely down his pale cheeks. “I’m doing it for you, baby. I’m doing it all for you.”

**

Tom stood at his bedroom window, his dark eyes focused on the hazy outline of the rising moon. Without warning, a full-length shudder vibrated through his body, raising thousands of goosebumps over his naked flesh, and closing his eyes, he pictured Booker’s face in his mind. Although it seemed impossible given their rocky relationship, the dark-haired officer was constantly on his mind, and for the hundredth time that day, he wondered why his friend hadn’t told him he was taking leave. While it explained Booker’s absence over the past three days, it did not help alleviate Tom’s feelings of abandonment, and he wished his friend would pick up the phone and call him, just so he could hear his voice. 

After several minutes, he opened his eyes and turning away from the window, he climbed into bed, and pulling the covers under his chin, he stared gloomily up at the ceiling. He missed Booker more than he would have ever thought possible, and exhaling a wistful sigh, he wondered if the young officer missed him too.


	26. Lead Us Not into Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry for the delay in posting.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom stood at his bedroom window, his dark eyes focused on the hazy outline of the rising moon. Without warning, a full-length shudder vibrated through his body, raising thousands of goose bumps over his naked flesh, and closing his eyes, he pictured Booker’s face in his mind. Although it seemed impossible given their rocky relationship, the dark-haired officer was constantly on his mind, and for the hundredth time that day, he wondered why his friend hadn’t told him he was taking leave. While it explained Booker’s absence over the past three days, it did not help alleviate Tom’s feelings of abandonment, and he wished his friend would pick up the phone and call him, just so he could hear his voice._
> 
> _After several minutes, he opened his eyes and turning away from the window, he climbed into bed, and pulling the covers under his chin, he stared gloomily up at the ceiling. He missed Booker more than he would have ever thought possible, and exhaling a wistful sigh, he wondered if the young officer missed him too._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35130137114/in/dateposted-public/)

A narrow shaft of sunlight radiated through the awning window, the shimmering beam shining directly upon Booker’s upturned face. With a moan, the young officer fought his way back to consciousness, and opening his eyes, he squinted against the brightness of the luminous rays. A bone-shaking shiver immediately ran down the length of his body, and pushing himself to a sitting position, he drew up his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around his legs. The temperature in the room had dropped rapidly during the night, but he had remained blissfully unaware due in part to the head injury he had sustained the evening before. But the memory of the assault soon returned in vivid color and lifting his hand to his head, he gingerly explored the lump on his left temple. Dry blood caked the wound, the crusty layer crumbling beneath his probing fingers. After twelve hours, his head still throbbed from the force of the impact, and he briefly wondered if getting knocked out twice in ten days had, in fact, caused some damage. However, after careful consideration, he concluded that despite feeling mildly disoriented, he was not in any significant danger, and taking a deep breath, he fought through his confusion and attempted to pull himself together. It was important to keep his wits about him because if not, he ran the very real risk of suffering a permanent injury, or worse, he could wind up dead.

Using the wall for support, he slowly stood up. The room immediately began to spin, and closing his eyes, he drew in deep, calming breaths and waited for his equilibrium to stabilize. Several minutes passed before the rolling nausea in his stomach settled, and peeking cautiously through half-open lids, he reacquainted himself with the small room. The only difference he noticed was an upturned bucket at the bottom of the rickety stairs, and he deduced Holland must have thrown it down sometime during the night. He was surprised he hadn’t heard it, but after sobbing out his pain and frustration to an invisible Tom, he had fallen into a deep, almost coma-like sleep. But now the bucket was in view, he noticed the uncomfortable ache in his bladder, and lurching over to the staircase, he righted the pail and quickly relieved himself. Once finished, he moved the bucket under the stairs and gazed up at the wooden trap door at the top of the steps. He knew it was a pointless exercise to try to open it; Holland was methodical, and there was no way he would leave the hatch unlocked and risk losing one of his _prized possessions._ It was a realization that left him feeling frustrated and powerless. Whether he liked it or not, he remained a prisoner, and he had no choice but to sit and wait for his captor to release him.

A sudden wave of fatigue washed over him, and without warning, his legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor. Emotion surged through him, and covering his face with his hands, his shoulders heaved, and he succumbed under the weight of his sorrow. All his pain and humiliation came out in loud, racking sobs, the intensity of his anguish sending tremors of remorse throughout his tired, aching body. Never before had he felt so wretched, so utterly _worthless,_ and at that moment, he hated Tom with a fiery passion. Because of Hanson, he had willingly become Holland’s whore, and by doing so, he had degraded himself to the point where he no longer knew who he was or what he stood for. He was at Holland’s mercy, and every time the mogul fucked him, another piece of his soul died. Dennis Patrick Booker the man, the son, the friend, and the police officer were all gradually fading away, obliterated beneath the brutality and debauchery of the sexual acts he participated in, and in his place, a faceless automaton was slowly emerging. It was a rebirth of sorts, a metamorphosis from a living, breathing, feeling being, to a desensitized, emotionless robot. The change was an obvious transition, and Booker desperately wrestled with his psyche in an attempt to hang on to his identity, to maintain his sense of self. But each time he voluntarily submitted to Holland’s demands, another part of his essence ebbed away, leaving him bereft and numb. He was fighting a losing battle, and it was all Tom’s fault.

The irritating scrape of metal-on-metal halted Booker mid-sob, and heaving himself to his feet, he gazed upward through tear-filled eyes as the trap door above him slowly opened. Light flooded into the small dungeon, instantly blinding him, and shielding his eyes with his hand, he held his breath and squinted into the ethereal luminosity; watching, waiting, praying for his salvation. So when a celestial figure came into view, the glow of its silvery-gold halo hovering above its featureless face, his mind whirled in confusion and dropping to his knees, he raised his arms above his head in a gesture of supplication.

“Help me,” he sobbed. “Oh, God, please help me.”

A cruel laugh filtered down into the abyss. “I told you, boy, God won’t help you. Now stop your sniveling and get up here, I want to have some fun.”

The words cleared the confusion from Booker’s addled mind, leaving him embarrassed and vulnerable. Without pause, he scuttled stiffly up the wooden stairs, and emerging from the darkness of the oubliette, he drew comfort from the warmth of the sun’s rays streaming in through the French casement windows. As the life-giving beams heated his flesh, the rigidity in his body gradually eased, and a grateful sigh exhaled from between his parched lips. But his relief was short-lived, and without warning, a finger poked him sharply in the stomach, causing him to flinch.

“You stink,” Holland announced in a matter-of-fact tone. 

Booker cast his eyes apologetically to the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbled, the odor of his stale sweat suddenly overpowering his senses. He longed to rid himself of the blood and semen coating his thighs, but he was having trouble gauging Holland’s mood. However, his need to get clean soon outweighed his fear of reprisal, and lifting his gaze, he spoke in a soft, deferential voice. “Please, may I shower?”

An excited glint flashed in Holland’s eyes. “I thought you’d never ask,” the mogul grinned, and grabbing hold of Booker’s wrist, he hauled him across the room and out into the wide foyer, where he proceeded up the winding staircase to the second floor. Booker kept up as best he could, but he was still feeling the aftereffects of his head injury, and he stumbled several times. But when they reached the master bedroom, he found his reserve, and pulling up abruptly, he wrenched his hand free from his captor’s hold and stared with wide, troubled eyes at the naked figure standing compliantly next to the bed. “Wh-what’s he doing here?” he stammered.

A slow, rakish smile lit up Holland’s face. “I thought that would be obvious, my dear Dennis. Jorge is here to partake in the fun.”

Despite his infirmity, Booker’s eyes roved hungrily over the Latino’s exposed flesh, taking in the length and thickness of his magnificent penis. The memory of the young man's soft lips moving over his shaft brought his limp cock to life, and he longed to hold the beautiful pool boy in his arms and love him in the way he deserved to be loved. He wanted to forget about the pain and degradation he had endured at the hands of a psychopath. He wanted to forget he had ever made the absurd promise to Holland in exchange for the tapes. He wanted to put the nightmare he was living behind him and escape to the freedom of the outside world. But most of all, he wanted to forget about Tom because whenever he thought about the man he had carried a torch for since the first day they met, his stomach knotted in anger. Rightly or wrongly, his distorted mind now believed Hanson was the reason he found himself in the predicament he was in. He honestly thought the young officer had managed to manipulate him by using his wily charms, and pretty boy looks to convince him he needed saving, and that the only way his life would ever have meaning again was to destroy the tapes. Although a cockeyed perspective of the truth, Booker’s ego firmly accepted it as fact, thereby protecting his morality. He did not want to admit he got off on the rough sex or that he had experienced some of the most mind-blowing orgasms he had ever had the pleasure to experience while writhing beneath Holland’s hot, sweaty body. To do so would reveal his darker side, the part of him he had not known existed until he met Ingram Holland. It was an aspect of his personality that concerned him, and he longed to re-bury it deep inside his psyche and forget it even existed. In essence, he wanted to be Dennis Booker again because the man he was becoming frightened him.

But as he drank in the splendor of Jorge’s heavenly body, he forgot all about fighting against the life of debauchery Holland was pulling him toward with each passing day. Instead, his reaction was to respond in a submissive, almost mechanical manner that mirrored the Latino’s calm acceptance of the situation. “What do you want us to do?”

Holland flashed a bright smile. “Today, my beautiful boys, is movie day. Today, I get to record you in all your glory.”

A shiver of unease ran down Booker’s spine, but when he flashed a worried look at Jorge, the young Latino exuded a serene aura of composure, and he drew strength from his unwavering calm. It was a scenario the pool boy had evidently participated in before, and when Booker saw a flicker of arousal in the young man’s dark eyes, his heart began to thud with excitement, and he found himself longing for the game to begin.

Channeling his inner director, Holland clapped his hands together several times. “Pay attention, boys. The scene will take place in the shower. You are to wash each other’s bodies in a slow, erotic manner, but there is to be _no_ kissing. Understood?”

In a dreamlike state, Booker followed Jorge into the gleaming bathroom. Without waiting for direction, Jorge turned on the faucets and waited until a light mist of steam wafted throughout the elegantly tiled room. “C’mon,” he instructed softly, and taking the young officer by the hand, he led him into the spacious cubicle.

Oblivious to the hand-held video camera Holland was now using to record their every move, Booker drew in short, shallow breaths as Jorge liberally lathered his hands with a bar of scented soap. As the warm water cascaded over the young officer’s battered body, his flesh tingled with anticipation for the thrill he knew was but moments away. The wait was brief, and when Jorge’s soft, soapy hands made contact with his torso, a deep moan resonated in his chest.

“That’s it,” Holland directed from behind the camera, his voice a heavy pant of arousal. “Make the dirty whore nice and clean.”

Jorge’s hands moved slowly over Booker’s upper body, purging him of the stale stench of sweat and fear that clung to his skin. Once satisfied with the young Latino’s efforts, Holland issued a new directive. “Now, move your hands down and touch his cock.”

“Oh, God,” Booker exulted, his eyelids fluttering closed as he allowed his body to react to the titillating sensation of warm, soapy fingers stroking his semi-erect penis. “Oh, God.”

Pleased with the reaction, Holland spoke in a fatherly tone to the young officer. “Pick up the soap, Dennis; there’s a good boy. Jorge wants you to play with him.” 

In a daze, Booker picked up the soap and rolled it in his hands. When his gaze met Jorge's, he saw a look of complete trust laced with deep, sexual longing shining from the soft, brown eyes, and his heart skipped a beat. He started slow, and as his hands caressed the young Latino's broad chest, he found himself falling into a powerful, hypnotic state. Time stood still; the sensation of Jorge’s smooth, flawless flesh beneath his fingers the only thought occupying his mind, and when his thumb grazed the raised nub of his lover’s nipple, he took an almost hedonistic delight in the gasp of pleasure that resonated around the room.

“Good, good,” Holland praised softly, his free hand massaging his own growing member through the material of his light brown chinos. “But Jorge wants more, Dennis. He wants you to jerk him off. Don’t you, my sweet chico?”

 _“Yesss,”_ Jorge breathed, his voice barely audible above the thrum of water cascading from the shower head. But the fiery spark in his dark, expressive eyes conveyed the fervor of his passion, and Booker took no time granting him his wish. His right hand traveled slowly down Jorge’s lathered torso before his fingers stroked along the length of his lover’s erect shaft. In response, Jorge’s long, talented fingers moved slowly up and down Booker’s erection, teasing it to hardness with each measured stroke. Their eyes locked; the profound intensity of their gaze blocking out the sights and sounds surrounding them, and with silent consent, their hands soon fell into a jerky rhythm of lust and selfish need. The blood pulsating rapidly through their cocks engorged their dorsal veins and arteries, lengthening and thickening their shafts to a state of full arousal, and concerned they would peak before he had a chance to video the main event, Holland addressed his protégé in a loud, authoritative tone. “Enough, Jorge. Turn around.”

The young pool boy immediately obeyed his master’s command. Releasing Booker’s cock, he turned and faced the wall, and bracing his hands against the condensation-slicked tiles, he leaned forward and spread his legs in invitation.

“There’s lube on the shelf,” Holland advised Booker in a soft, lilting voice. “Take your time. I want to watch you touch yourself.

With the warm stream of water continuing to flow over his shoulders, Booker reached out and retrieved the tube hidden next to an assortment of shampoos. In a trance, he squirted a generous amount of the scented oil onto his hand and slowly lubricated his cock, exacting pleasure from each gentle caress. Closing his eyes, he lost himself in the narcissistic pleasure until Holland’s voice pulled him from his self-gratification. “That’s enough.”

Booker paused mid-stroke, and opening his eyes, he gazed with a mixture of lascivious adoration and wide-eyed wonderment at Jorge’s quivering buttocks. He stood in silent awe, the pellucid teardrops of water lacquering his naked flesh creating an ethereal shimmer under the effulgence of the overhead light, and after so much attention, his erection jutted outward, curving upward toward his belly, a crimson blush staining the smooth cockhead. The effect was breathtaking in its simplicity, and for a second, Holland was spellbound by the magnitude of Booker’s beauty. At that precise moment, the young officer was a vision of pure, unadulterated masculinity, a glorious depiction of the perfect male form, and Holland knew he had captured on film a transcendent point in time that would be difficult to replicate. 

The mogul’s desirous gaze greedily fed on the steamy sight for a few seconds longer before returning to the business at hand. “Jorge’s waiting, Dennis,” he purred, his fingers expertly adjusting the camcorder’s focus to maximize the effect of the wide-angle shot. “He wants you to fuck him.”

Lost in the eroticism of the moment, Booker did not think through the consequences of his actions. He forgot about the camera, he forgot about Holland’s penchant for blackmail, and most tellingly, he forgot about Tom. His mind remained focused on one thing; restoring the dignity and self-respect Holland had so effectively stripped from him with each humiliating sex act. For the first time since entering the tycoon’s home, he had some semblance of control. He was no longer the submissive bitch, he was once again the alpha male, and he planned to demonstrate his dominance. While his affection for Jorge was genuine, his confidence over the last few days had taken a beating, and he still had another two weeks of abuse to endure until Holland freed him from his _contractual_ obligations. He needed a boost, an emotional curative to assist him through the ordeal of the physical and psychological debasement he would continue to suffer over the coming weeks. Therefore, there were no regrets or feelings of guilt for what he was about to do to the emotionally damaged young man standing in front of him. In his delusional mind, it was his turn to shine, and by God, he would shimmer like a fucking diamond.

 _“Deeeniiis,”_ Holland crooned softly. “What are you waiting for, mon bien-aimé?”

Caught in the tangled web of a dream, Booker stepped forward and placed one hand on Jorge’s hip. He paused for a fraction of a second, savoring the feel of the quivering flesh beneath his hand before he pressed his burgeoning cockhead against the Latino’s anus and pushed his erection inside. Tight, rippling muscles contracted around his shaft in undulating waves, teasing him with the irregularity of their cadence. Immediately, a low moan spilled unchecked from between his lips, and closing his eyes, he pushed deeper inside the warmth of Jorge’s trembling body. His hips rocked slowly back and forth, each thrust sending powerful jolts of pleasure through the length of his cock, and down into his testicles. Opening his eyes, he watched his erection slide in and out of Jorge’s accommodating body, the visual stimulation heightening his arousal. Once again he was master of his domain. He knew how to pleasure a man, and he would show Holland how it was done.

Holland’s eyes sparkled with a lustful passion, and unzipping his chinos, he released his cock and began to masturbate. “Harder,” he rasped, his hand working faster over his erection. “Fuck him harder.”

The tip of Jorge’s cock glistened with pre-cum, and his enormous penis bounced freely from the impact of Booker’s cock ramming deep inside his anus. Although there was an urgency to the dark-haired officer’s lovemaking, there was also an air of altruism behind each measured thrust, unlike Holland’s brutish, self-gratifying style of fucking, and a shiver of adoration ran through the Latino’s body. He could not remember the last time he had felt truly loved by another human being; and the deep, emotional attachment he was beginning to feel for the man pleasuring him intensified. It was mystifying in its absurdity. He had only had contact with Dennis for a few short moments, and the only words spoken had been the officer’s heartfelt apology the night before. However, there was an undeniable connection between the two men, but whether it evolved from their shared circumstance or something much deeper was of little consequence to Jorge. He had finally found his kindred spirit, and he was determined never to let him go. 

“Yes yes yes,” Holland gasped in a rush of excitement, his hand pumping over his cock in rhythm with his sexual mantra. “My boys, my gorgeous boys.”

Engulfed by a wave of pure emotion, Booker leaned forward and murmured in Jorge’s ear. “Come for me, beautiful.”

With a euphoric cry, Jorge ejaculated over the tiled wall, his juices mixing with the opaque drops of water clinging to the shiny surface. Within seconds, Booker’s soft grunts transformed into an ecstatic yell as he too shot forth his orgasm, followed moments later by Holland’s shout of pleasure. The smell of sex mingled with the steam from the shower, the heady aroma adding to the men’s sexual gratification, and pressing his body against Jorge, Booker whispered a furtive vow against the young Latino’s cheek. “I promise, when I leave, I’ll take you with me.”

A grateful smile relaxed Jorge’s facial muscles, and reclining against his lover, he closed his eyes and imagined a life safely sheltered in the protective arms of Dennis Booker.


	27. The Changing Heart Paradigm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Caught in the tangled web of a dream, Booker stepped forward and placed one hand on Jorge’s hip. He paused for a fraction of a second, savoring the feel of the quivering flesh beneath his hand before he pressed his burgeoning cockhead against the Latino’s anus and pushed his erection inside. Tight, rippling muscles contracted around his shaft in undulating waves, teasing him with the irregularity of their cadence. Immediately, a low moan spilled unchecked from between his lips, and closing his eyes, he pushed deeper inside the warmth of Jorge’s trembling body. His hips rocked slowly back and forth, each thrust sending powerful jolts of pleasure through the length of his cock, and down into his testicles. Opening his eyes, he watched his erection slide in and out of Jorge’s accommodating body, the visual stimulation heightening his arousal. Once again he was master of his domain. He knew how to pleasure a man, and he would show Holland how it was done._
> 
> _Holland’s eyes sparkled with a lustful passion, and unzipping his chinos, he released his cock and began to masturbate. “Harder,” he rasped, his hand working faster over his erection. “Fuck him harder.”_
> 
> _The tip of Jorge’s cock glistened with pre-cum, and his enormous penis bounced freely from the impact of Booker’s cock ramming deep inside his anus. Although there was an urgency to the dark-haired officer’s lovemaking, there was also an air of altruism behind each measured thrust, unlike Holland’s brutish, self-gratifying style of fucking, and a shiver of adoration ran through the Latino’s body. He could not remember the last time he had felt truly loved by another human being; and the deep, emotional attachment he was beginning to feel for the man pleasuring him intensified. It was mystifying in its absurdity. He had only had contact with Dennis for a few short moments, and the only words spoken had been the officer’s heartfelt apology the night before. However, there was an undeniable connection between the two men, but whether it evolved from their shared circumstance or something much deeper was of little consequence to Jorge. He had finally found his kindred spirit, and he was determined never to let him go._
> 
> _“Yes yes yes,” Holland gasped in a rush of excitement, his hand pumping over his cock in rhythm with his sexual mantra. “My boys, my gorgeous boys.”_
> 
> _Engulfed by a wave of pure emotion, Booker leaned forward and murmured in Jorge’s ear. “Come for me, beautiful.”_
> 
> _With a euphoric cry, Jorge ejaculated over the tiled wall, his juices mixing with the opaque drops of water clinging to the shiny surface. Within seconds, Booker’s soft grunts transformed into an ecstatic yell as he too shot forth his orgasm, followed moments later by Holland’s shout of pleasure. The smell of sex mingled with the steam from the shower, the heady aroma adding to the men’s sexual gratification, and pressing his body against Jorge, Booker whispered a furtive vow against the young Latino’s cheek. “I promise, when I leave, I’ll take you with me.”_
> 
> _A grateful smile relaxed Jorge’s facial muscles, and reclining against his lover, he closed his eyes and imagined a life safely sheltered in the protective arms of Dennis Booker._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35799437632/in/dateposted-public/)

**Three days later**

After carefully considering Fuller’s advice, Tom had formally taken a leave of absence for the remainder of the week. As Booker had been due back at work the day he had started his so-called _vacation,_ Tom had spent each day waiting expectantly for the young officer to make contact. But after enduring an agonizing seventy-two hours pining for the man who now occupied his every thought, he had come to the unwelcome conclusion that Booker had decided to end their budding friendship. Whether he liked it or not, he now had to deal with the emotional impact of his rape on his own, leaving him feeling isolated and depressed. While he missed Booker’s friendship, the dark-haired officer was also the only person he could talk to about his rape, and he _needed_ to talk because a terrifying assortment of fears and concerns were now occupying his daily thoughts. The hospital had run blood work for all the known sexually transmitted diseases, but it was still too early to know the results of his HIV test. Therefore, without anyone to reassure him everything would be okay, he spent his days drowning his sorrows in an orgy of whiskey and fast food, before crashing into oblivion, only to start the cycle again when he woke up. But now, the bilious aftereffects of a three-day binge had taken their toll, and he lay on the sofa, the sour aftertaste of Jack Daniel’s finest violating his taste buds, leaving him queasy, irritable, and wishing he had never opened his heart to an insensitive scoundrel like Dennis Booker.

However, despite his animosity, when a knock on the door signaled the arrival of a visitor, his breath caught in his throat, and his heart thudded once, before settling back to its natural rhythm. Not wanting to appear too eager, he rose unsteadily from the couch, and running his fingers through his unwashed hair, he counted to three and walked over to the door. When a second knock rattled the frame, he rubbed his sweaty palms over his stained flannel shirt, and drawing his lips back into a strained smile, he drew back the chain and opened the door.

Penhall’s cheerful expression slowly vanished as his eyes took in Tom’s disheveled appearance. He immediately detected the strong odor of alcohol and sweat wafting off his friend’s person, and wrinkling his nose, he took a step back, his hand waving theatrically in front of his face. “Phew- _ee,_ Hanson,” he spluttered. “You stink!”

The disappointment Tom felt at not finding Booker on his doorstep quickly manifested into annoyance, and a heavy scowl twisted his features. “Nice to see you too, _pal,”_ he replied stiffly, a contemptuous flicker briefly animating his bloodshot eyes. “What do you want?”

It did not take a genius to read the volatility of Tom’s mood; Penhall knew his friend well enough to know he suffered debilitating hangovers when he hit the bottle, and judging by his appearance, he had really tied one on. However, that did not give him permission to behave like an asshole, and mirroring the young officer’s heavy scowl, Penhall rudely pushed his way into the apartment and closed the door. “We need to talk.”

Tom would have liked nothing more than to throw Penhall out on his ass, but he was too tired and weak from his days of relentless drinking to attempt such a radical move. Instead, he accepted his fate, and heaving a long, capitulating sigh, he stared at the older officer with deadpan eyes. “About?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Penhall perched on the edge of the couch. When Tom remained standing, he leaned forward, and resting his elbows on his knees, he laced his fingers together and pressing them to his lips, he studied his friend’s pale face. The seconds ticked slowly by before he finally spoke; his voice low and tinged with concern. “What’s going on, Tom, man? You’ve been acting weird ever since the hazing case. And now Booker’s missing, and—”

“Booker’s missing?” Tom interrupted, his mask of animosity slipping to reveal a look of genuine distress, and suddenly, a thousand scenarios rushed through his mind; McCarter raping Booker… McCarter beating Booker… McCarter killing Booker.... His senses overloaded, and rushing forward, he grabbed Penhall by the shoulders, and screamed into the officer’s face, his hysteria mounting with each sharply delivered word. “HOW CAN HE BE MISSING? I THOUGHT HE WAS TAKING CARE OF HIS MOM, AND NOW YOU’RE TELLING ME HE’S DISAPPEARED? IS FULLER LOOKING FOR HIM? IS HE? ANSWER ME, GODDAMMIT! ANSWER _ME!”_

Shocked by Tom’s mordacious rhetoric, Penhall jumped to his feet, and grasping hold of the younger officer’s wrists, he forced his arms down by his sides. “Calm down!” he commanded. “Just calm down and listen!”

JESUS _FUCKING_ CHRIST!” Tom yelled, and pulling his hands free, he grabbed the front of Penhall’s black tee shirt and gripped it in his fist. “DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! HE COULD BE IN DANGER! HE COULD BE IN REAL _FUCKING_ DANGER!”

Confusion clouded Penhall’s eyes, but his primary concern was pacifying his friend, and grabbing Tom by the tops of his arms, he shook him violently. “I said, CALM _DOWN!”_

Tears of agitation coupled with frustration glistened in Tom’s tortured eyes, and wrenching free from Penhall’s hold, he raked his fingers frantically through his tousled hair. Without warning, flashbacks of his rape flooded through his mind in one, huge, crashing wave of emotion; the sensation of rough hands gripping his naked flesh… the pungent fragrance of testosterone… the grunting… the laughing… the look of sheer helplessness shining from Booker’s dark, anguished eyes… The memory was a disjointed collage of crippling pain, bound together with feelings of inadequacy and guilt. If Booker was at risk, the blame lay firmly on his shoulders, and he was not sure he could live knowing he was ultimately responsible for another man’s suffering.

The depth of his despair suddenly consumed him, and overwrought with emotion, his face twisted into an expression of pure agony. Seconds later, his legs gave way, and dropping into a chair, he covered his face with his hands and sobbed out his pain. 

Disturbed by the emotional display, Penhall stood paralyzed for several seconds before dropping to his knees next to Tom’s chair and placing a comforting arm around his quivering shoulders. “Talk to me, Tommy,” he murmured into his friend’s dirty hair. “If you think Booker’s in danger, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

Soft hiccups impeded Tom’s speech, so he shook his head in answer. But Penhall was not easily discouraged, and shifting into a cross-legged position, he placed his hands on Tom’s knees. “Did something happen at the fraternity?” he asked softly.

Tom’s body visibly stiffened. But as much as he wanted to pour his heart out to his best friend, he was too ashamed. He knew if he divulged his secret, their relationship would never be the same. Not that it would be Penhall’s fault; he was a kind and compassionate man who would lay down his life for his friends. But Tom was astute enough to understand Doug would never be able to look at him in the same way if he knew seven men had brutally sexually assaulted him. It would forever be the elephant in the room; the unspoken, yet inescapable fact that would eventually drive a wedge between them. However, despite his apprehension, there was now the matter of Booker’s disappearance to take into consideration. If his friend _was_ in danger, holding back vital information about the Pi Taus could prove costly. But even though he had a complexity of feelings for Dennis that had him questioning the very foundation of his sexuality, he could not find the inner courage to speak to Penhall about his rape. Instead, he made the decision to investigate Booker’s sudden disappearance himself, and he knew exactly where to start.

After taking a minute to pull himself together, he lifted his head, and wiping a hand over his tear-stained face, he stared intensely into Penhall’s worried eyes. “Tell me everything you know about Booker’s disappearance.”

**

Having grilled Penhall about Booker’s phone call to Fuller, Tom had courteously but forcefully escorted his friend to the door with promises of spending a night bowling in the not too distant future. He then set about ridding himself of his hangover so he would have a clear mind the following day. Although his appetite was nonexistent, he cooked himself a fry-up of bacon and eggs, which he consumed without his usual gusto. After clearing the clothing and dirty plates that lay littered around his apartment, he washed the dishes before heading to the bathroom. Stripping off his clothes, he turned on the shower and stepped under the warm flow of water. He stood for a moment and allowed the therapeutic spray to work its magic over his tired, aching muscles before picking up the soap and lathering his body, all the while thinking about the best way to launch his plan of attack.

**

**The following day**

Unlike the frantic weekday schedule of lectures, study, and assignments, college life on a weekend was a laid-back haven of social interaction, sport, and the obligatory all-night kegger. Tom stood on the edge of the paved quadrangle outside Stevenson Hall, eagerly watching the comings and goings of its inhabitants, and a wry smile played over his lips. A lot had happened since his carefree college days; he’d dealt with the death of the second most influential man in his life, been rescued from a mental institution, beaten up, shot, and raped, all of which had slowly chipped away at his trusting, carefree nature. After three years, he had seen too much, and he was no longer the same man he had been when he joined the force as a bright-eyed, enthusiastic twenty-one-year-old. Time and personal experience had wearied him, and he doubted he would ever revitalize the optimistic spark that now lay dormant, buried beneath his pain in the very depths of his soul.

It did not take long for him to spy his quarry, and walking out of the shadows, he fell into step beside the young freshman. “Hey, Harold.”

For the second time in less than two weeks, the cold hand of panic gripped at Horshack’s heart, and stopping dead in his tracks, he spun around and stared at Tom in disbelief. His expression was one of fear tinged with happiness, and when he finally found his voice, he spluttered out his greeting. “H-Harris! It’s _so_ good to see you! What are you doing here?”

The lines around Tom’s eyes softened, and placing a hand on the freshman’s shoulder, he gave it a friendly squeeze. “It’s good to see you too, Harold. But it’s Hanson, not Harris, remember?”

A sad smile passed over Horshack’s face, darkening his eyes. “Yeah, I remember,” he replied softly.

The two young men stood in silence for several seconds, the memory of the final Pi Tau ritual an unspoken trauma they both wished they could forget. But it had been a defining moment in each man’s life. Both had undergone a life changing metamorphosis deep within the bowels of the Pi Tau fraternity; one had found his courage, the other had lost what remained of his innocence, and the antithesis between the two men was striking. They were night and day, darkness and light, death and life, yin and yang, and therefore, they remained irrevocably entwined. Together, they formed the circle of life, but their togetherness also heightened their pain, making their reunion awkward and tense.

Embarrassed by the compassion shining from Harold’s eyes, Tom dropped his hand and shoved it in his pocket. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

With an understanding nod, Harold motioned toward a bench sheltered beneath the canopy of a large birch tree. Once seated, he gave Tom a nervous smile. “Okay, before you say anything, if you’ve come to ask me about Dennis, I can’t help you.”

Astonishment widened Tom’s eyes. “You’ve spoken to Booker? When?”

Harold paused for a moment before divulging the information. “About a week ago,” he replied.

“A week!” Tom exclaimed, and grabbing Horshack by the shoulders, he stared intently into his eyes. “This is serious, Harold. Booker’s missing, so I need you to tell me everything you know.”

Harold’s new found confidence was still a work in progress, and he faltered for a fraction of a second before shaking his head, a look of dogged determination shining from behind his thick lenses. “I can’t.”

Stunned by the freshman’s audacious refusal to answer his questions, Tom put on his best _I’m a cop, don’t fuck with me_ face, and glared through narrowed eyes. “You’d better tell me, Horshack, otherwise, you’re gonna find yourself in a world of trouble.”

Although intimidated by Tom’s authoritative tone, Harold stuck by his guns. Standing up, he drew himself up to his full height—which amounted to an unthreatening five foot four inches—and puffed out his chest in a show of resistance. “I’m sorry, Hanson, but I made a promise to Dennis. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a study date.”

In the hopes of scaring Harold into talking, Tom briefly considered taking him into custody for questioning. But if he did, he would have no choice but to reveal to Fuller every sordid detail of what had occurred in the basement of the Pi Tau frat house, and he was not prepared to walk down that emotional path… at least not yet.

“Fine,” he spat, and getting to his feet, he glowered back at the defiant freshman. “But if anything happens to him, I’m holding _you_ personally responsible.”

A look of uncertainty flashed in Harold’s eyes, but it was fleeting, and picking up his backpack, he threw it over his shoulder. As he started to walk away, he suddenly paused mid-step, and turning back around, he addressed Tom in a soft voice. “Are you okay, Tom? I mean, are you okay after…” 

Unable to articulate the horror the young officer had experienced at the hands of the Pi Taus, Horshack left his sentence hanging. When Tom did not answer, his lips twitched into a sad smile. “I wish I could help you, but I made a promise. Surely you understand?”

“No,” Tom replied in a cold voice. “I _don’t_ understand. I don’t understand any of it. But for your sake, I hope you know what you’re doing.” And without further comment, he turned and walked away.

From behind the camouflage of a broad oak tree, Michael McCarter watched the exchange with interest. As luck would have it, he had been visiting a friend at Stevenson Hall when he caught sight of the two men talking. Although too far away to hear the conversation, their body language disclosed what their words did not. There was an obvious friction between them, and a worried frown creased his brow. Something had Tom in a state of agitation, and McCarter knew whatever it was, it was worth a phone call to Ingram Holland.

**

**Thirty minutes later**

Booker heard the thud of heavy footsteps long before Holland arrived at the tiny lean-to where he spent his time when he wasn’t performing sexual favors for the mogul and his friends. Having wasted the last hour staring blankly at the same page of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s _A Study in Scarlet,_ he almost welcomed the interruption, and turning in his chair, he watched as Holland stormed into the room.

“We have a problem,” the tycoon growled, the heavy scowl darkening his features easily communicating his displeasure.

“We do?” Booker asked innocently.

A well-aimed smack to the back of his head soon had the young officer rethinking the wisdom of his impertinence, and he immediately lowered his eyes in a gesture of submissive obedience. “Sorry,” he mumbled by way of apology.

Holland grunted in reply before pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I just had an interesting phone call,” he divulged. “Apparently, your beloved Tom has been talking to that pathetic specimen, Harold Horshack.”

The mention of Tom’s name immediately had Booker paying attention, but he took care not to appear too interested. Holland was fiercely jealous, and the young officer did not fancy spending another night alone in the oubliette because he had stepped over the imaginary line of lustful indecency. Not that he really cared about Tom, he didn’t. As far as he was concerned, that ship had sailed, and the rousing, physical ache he had once felt for the beautiful officer was now nothing more than a faint memory. In its place was seething resentment, coupled with the knowledge Tom had duped him into retrieving the tapes, thereby putting his morality at risk. No matter how he looked at it, Tom was the root of all his problems, and he’d be damned if he would pine for a man who had destroyed the very fabric of his being, whether intentionally or not. Of course, the thought of leaving had crossed his mind many times, and he longed to tell Holland to ram his contract where the sun don’t shine because he no longer cared about Tom’s state of mind. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, partly because he no longer had the confidence to stand up for himself, and partly because he knew Jorge would ultimately bear the brunt of Holland’s fury. Therefore, he remained silent, and all he could do was endure the humiliation until he was free to leave.

When Holland cleared his throat impatiently, Booker lifted his gaze and giving the tycoon his full attention, he replied in what he hoped was a casual manner. “Really?”

“Yes, _really,”_ Holland replied impatiently. “Unfortunately, McCarter couldn’t get close enough to hear the conversation. But you can bet your bottom dollar they were talking about _you.”_

Booker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Me?” he asked cautiously. “Why would they be talking about me?”

“Because you didn’t return to work, you dolt!” Holland barked. “Damn it! I knew I should have let you call your captain again. Now that pesky Hanson’s going to start searching for you, and I’m not ready to let you go, boy. I haven’t finished playing with you, not by a long shot.”

Although Holland’s derogatory proclamation would have riled the Booker of old, the downtrodden, dejected Booker did not bat an eye. Instead, he offered the tycoon a suggestion. “Let me call him. Once I tell him I’m okay, he won’t bother looking for me, I’m sure of it.”

The furious glint in Holland’s eyes faded, and reaching out a hand, he tenderly caressed Booker’s hair. “Well, well, how the tides have changed. A few days ago, you would have jumped at the thought of your precious Tom rescuing you. I guess you really _do_ enjoy it when I fuck you.”

Booker smiled respectfully, but behind his tender expression lay a secret. Holland wasn’t the reason he was willing to give up his freedom to stay trapped in a living nightmare… Jorge was.

**

**One hour later**

At the precise moment Tom turned the key in the door of his apartment, a loud ringing sounded from inside. Adrenaline immediately started pumping through his veins, and shoving open the door, he ran inside and snatched up the telephone’s receiver. “Hanson!”

A flat, affectless voice sounded in his ear. “It’s Booker.”

Relief loosened Tom's tense muscles, and he collapsed into a nearby chair. “Jesus, Dennis, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

His declaration was met with a stony silence, and worried he'd lost the connection, Tom’s fingers tightened around the handset. “Dennis?” he queried in a worried voice. “Are you still there.”

“I’m here,” Booker replied stiffly.

Tom raked the fingers of his free hand through his hair, his initial sense of relief slowly manifesting into one of concern. “Are you okay? Is your mom okay? You sound kinda strange.”

“I’m fine,” Booker replied, his tone evasive. “I’ll be back at work in a week.”

“A week?” Tom exclaimed. “Dennis, you may not _have_ a job in a week! Fuller already thinks you’re unreliable, and he’s talking about disciplinary action. Why don’t you tell me where you are, then I can—”

“Look, Tom, just back off, okay?” Booker snapped. “None of this is any of your business. Just tell Fuller what I said.”

“But, Dennis!” Tom implored.

“Goodbye, Hanson,” Booker muttered, and seconds later, the line went dead.


	28. Shot Through the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: At the precise moment Tom turned the key in the door of his apartment, a loud ringing sounded from inside. Adrenaline immediately started pumping through his veins, and shoving open the door, he ran inside and snatched up the telephone’s receiver. “Hanson!”_
> 
> _A flat, affectless voice sounded in his ear. “It’s Booker.”_
> 
> _Relief loosened Tom's tense muscles, and he collapsed into a nearby chair. “Jesus, Dennis, it’s so good to hear your voice.”_
> 
> _His declaration was met with a stony silence, and worried he'd lost the connection, Tom’s fingers tightened around the handset. “Dennis?” he queried in a worried voice. “Are you still there.”_
> 
> _“I’m here,” Booker replied stiffly._
> 
> _Tom raked the fingers of his free hand through his hair, his initial sense of relief slowly manifesting into one of concern. “Are you okay? Is your mom okay? You sound kinda strange.”_
> 
> _“I’m fine,” Booker replied, his tone evasive. “I’ll be back at work in a week.”_
> 
> _“A week?” Tom exclaimed. “Dennis, you may not have a job in a week! Fuller already thinks you’re unreliable, and he’s talking about disciplinary action. Why don’t you tell me where you are, then I can—”_
> 
> _“Look, Tom, just back off, okay?” Booker snapped. “None of this is any of your business. Just tell Fuller what I said.”_
> 
> _“But, Dennis!” Tom implored._
> 
> _“Goodbye, Hanson,” Booker muttered, and seconds later, the line went dead._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35130196534/in/dateposted-public/)

**Two days later**

Having endured an hour-long grilling from Fuller about Booker’s disappearance, Tom exited his superior’s office feeling more than a little dispirited. Astute enough to know something had happened at the fraternity, Fuller had badgered him relentlessly about the hazing case, but Tom had remained stubbornly tight-lipped and had revealed only the bare facts, much to his captain’s indignation. But there was a reason behind Tom’s reticence. Without Booker by his side, he had come to acknowledge his rape as his own private hell and not something he could readily share with his friends. It was the source of his social withdrawal during the day, and a nightmare he relived in vivid color when he closed his eyes at night. But he felt he had no choice but to experience his pain alone. To admit to his friends his failure as a police officer and more importantly, as a man, was too mortifying to consider, and therefore, he suffered through Fuller’s verbal reprimand with quiet acceptance. After all, it was what he deserved. He was a pathetic excuse for a cop, and he was seriously considering putting forth his resignation. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, and he wished Fuller would take the ultimate step and revoke his badge and gun, which would release him from the burden of the job, and thereby circumvent any awkward questions. He no longer felt equipped to deal with the danger associated with being an officer, in fact, he no longer felt equipped to deal with life. But he kept up the pretense as best he could so as to avoid detection. Otherwise, he faced a barrage of questions he could not answer, and he was too tired and disillusioned to face another inquisition. All he wanted to do was erase the last seventeen days of his life from his mind because then, and only then, would he be free from the guilt and humiliation.

With his eyes downcast, he hurried over to his desk and sat down. Surprisingly, Fuller had kept him on active duty and had even assigned him to a drug trafficking case with Penhall. The stakeout was to take place the following evening, which gave him about thirty-five hours to get his shit together. But while he loved working with Penhall, he was concerned his best friend would see through his thinly veiled mask and recognize him for the fraud he was. Tom Hanson the undercover police officer no longer existed, and in his place was a worthless whore masquerading as a cop. Trapped in a lie, all he could do was go through the motions as best he could and hope no one discovered the truth about his deception. However, his heart really wasn’t in it. The very idea of spending time in Doug’s company filled him with a dread that added to his feelings of inadequacy, and once again he felt a strong desire to see the only person he could relate to; Booker. 

Suddenly aware of a presence beside him, Tom looked up with a start, a flash of fear sparkling in his eyes. When he saw Penhall, he exhaled heavily and forced a smile to his lips. “Hey, Doug.”

“Hey, yourself,” Doug replied slowly, his gaze carefully studying Tom’s strained expression. “Is everything okay? I heard Fuller chew you out. He’s pretty pissed, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tom replied quietly, his eyes not quite meeting Penhall’s inquisitive stare.

Not about to let Hanson’s vague response discourage him, Doug pulled up a chair, and straddling it backward, he rested his arms on the wooden back. “So, whatcha doin’ tonight?”

The question caught Tom by surprise, and he found himself tripping over his words. “T-Tonight? I… ah… I don’t… I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Excellent!” Doug exclaimed. “Tonight we party! How ‘bout we double?”

The color instantly drained from Tom’s face, and a look of horror replaced his confusion. “A d- _double_ date?” he stammered. “I-I—”

“Great!” Penhall declared in a loud voice, and hauling his large frame from the chair, he grinned down at Tom. “Leave it to me, what are you in the mood for? A blond? Brunette?”

Panic gripped Tom’s heart, and pushing back his chair, he stood up abruptly. “Doug wait! I… um… I don’t—”

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Penhall interrupted with a wink, and before Tom could reply, he strode across the room and engaged Harry in conversation.

**

**Fourteen hours later**

The young woman sitting to Tom’s left threw back her head and laughed loudly, the shrill sound piercing through the young officer’s thoughts. He flinched inwardly, and despite the overwhelming compulsion to scream at her to shut the fuck up, he managed a polite smile. So far, the double date had been a disaster, and he could feel Penhall throwing visual daggers at him, the unwelcome scrutiny causing him to squirm uncomfortably in his chair. He knew he was letting his friend down, but he just couldn’t muster any enthusiasm to engage in the conversation. Dorothy’s friend was pleasant enough, but whenever she touched his arm, panic rendered him mute, and he visibly shied away from the contact. On several occasions, Penhall’s large foot had made contact with his shin, but he had refused to acknowledge the not so subtle signal. He hadn’t asked to come on a double date, and therefore, he felt somewhat justified in expressing his petulance.

As the conversation once again lulled into an awkward silence, Dorothy elbowed Doug sharply in the ribs. The officer immediately took the hint, and standing up, he threw several twenty-dollar bills onto the table. “Well, it’s been fun, but Dorothy and I are gonna hit the road.”

Tom’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re leaving? But you drove us here. How the hell are we supposed to get home?”

Janice’s bright pink lips stretched into a knowing smile, and laying a hand on Tom’s thigh, she squeezed his tense muscles. “I live three blocks away. You can walk me home, and if you want, you can come in for a nightcap.” Her heavily mascaraed lashes battered seductively, the overtly provocative gesture sending a shiver of panic down Tom’s spine. It was an obvious ambush, but if he didn’t want to look like a complete fool, he had no choice but to agree to the proposal.

“Fine,” he muttered, and picking up Penhall’s money, he went to the bar and paid their tab. By the time he returned to their table, Doug and Dorothy had conveniently taken their leave. Resentment burned deep in his soul, but he managed to keep his cool, and sighing heavily, he handed Janice her coat. “Let’s go.”

With an intoxicated giggle, the young woman rose unsteadily to her feet and linking her arm through Tom’s, she snuggled in close, her long, silky hair tickling his cheek. “Take me home,” she murmured against his ear. “I wanna see you naked.”

A shudder of revulsion ran down the entire length of Tom’s body, but his expression remained impassive. All he had to do was stay calm long enough to deliver Janice to her front door, then he was free to make his escape.

They exited the bar and headed east. A light drizzle of rain dampened their clothing, and quickening their pace, they crossed the deserted street, being careful to avoid the iridescent puddles that shimmered with gasoline rainbows. Janice clung heavily to Tom’s arm, the rhythmic click of her stiletto heels echoing in the stillness of the narrow alley. But as they approached the bustling hub of Main Street, the sound of traffic became louder, and Tom could feel his anxiety levels rising. The last thing on his mind was sex, but it was obvious Janice expected to end the evening in a tangle of hot, sweaty limbs, and her apartment building was only two blocks away. The memory of his rape was a raw, gaping wound, and he felt unqualified to cope with a drunk, horny woman he had only just met. His assault had left him feeling emasculated, and he had not had an erection since the attack. Not that he spent his time trying; the thought of sex terrified him, and he was more than happy to put the whole concept of copulation out of his mind forever. However, while achieving a hard-on was an impossible dream, he could not control the weird sensation of butterflies fluttering in his stomach whenever he thought about Booker. The arousal was akin to his preteen infatuations; innocent and pure, yet tinged with a desire he did not fully understand. And in a sense, he _was_ infatuated with the dark-haired officer, the problem was, he had no idea why.

With his mind firmly focused on Dennis, Tom stumbled slightly when Janice abruptly stopped outside a neoclassical _beaux arts_ building. Before he had time to react, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, and nuzzling her moist lips into his neck, she gently nipped the taut skin. “Are you coming up for dessert, baby?” she whispered, her hands squeezing his firm buttocks. “I’m thinking whipped cream and chocolate syrup.”

There was no mistaking the sexual undertone concealed within Janice’s seemingly innocent proposal, and Tom’s body stiffened before he jerked free from her grasp. “I don’t think so.”

Janice’s playful expression turned into one of scorn. “I _knew_ you were too pretty to be straight,” she sneered. “I guess it’s Doug you’d rather sleep with, am I right?”

The ever-present shame Tom had managed to keep hidden suddenly engulfed him, and unwanted tears seeped from beneath his lids, the salty droplets clinging to his dark lashes. Embarrassed by the unbidden surge of grief, he quickly wiped a hand over his eyes, but not before Janice noticed. “Geez, you really _are_ a fag,” she remarked rudely, and spinning around, she climbed unsteadily up the concrete steps and disappeared through the door of her building.

Crushed by the unfairness of Janice’s stereotypical observation, a steady trickle of tears flowed freely down Tom's cheeks. His heart physically ached from the pain he fought so hard to disguise, and clinging to the tattered shreds of his manhood, he hunched his shoulders against the rain and headed toward home.

**

**The following evening**

Tom lowered his binoculars and tilting his head from side to side, he stretched out his aching neck muscles. With Doug sitting next to him, he had spent five hours staring out of the window of the tiny, cramped storeroom of a clothing store, and during that time, neither officer had witnessed any illicit activity from within the derelict building across the road. As the hours ticked by, Tom began to think the whole case was a bust, and his mind started to wander. While he usually enjoyed being on a stakeout with Doug, this time, he was finding the experience excruciatingly awkward. It did not take a genius to figure out his friend was annoyed, and he could only guess what Janice had told Dorothy about their brief moment of intimacy. Doug’s on-again, off-again girlfriend was a hot-blooded New Yorker, and her acerbic—and often unwarranted—verbal attacks directed at the man she professed to love were a legendary source of amusement amongst the Jump Street officers. But this time, Tom found nothing funny about the situation, and he could well imagine the fiery, oral punishment his friend had endured for daring to hook Janice up with a queer. 

With the unspoken animosity hanging heavily in the room, Tom felt the overwhelming need to escape, and pushing back his chair, he stood up. “Bathroom break,” he muttered by way of explanation.

Doug turned around, but before Tom could take flight, he grabbed him by the wrist, his left brow rising in question. “So, what happened last night? I thought you _wanted_ to get laid.”

The memory of tight metal cuffs binding his wrists sent a jolt of panic through Tom’s body. His chest constricted, making it difficult for him to breathe, and pulling free from Penhall’s hold, he tucked his trembling hands under his armpits. “She wasn’t my type,” he answered a little too quickly.

Penhall stayed silent for several seconds before the need to blurt out what was foremost on his mind finally got the better of him. “She said you started crying.”

Heat flamed Tom’s cheeks, and he shuffled uncomfortably. “That’s bullshit,” he mumbled, his eyes refusing to meet his friend’s inquisitive stare. “She’s a fucking liar.”

“Is she?” Penhall asked softly. 

The genuine concern inflected in his friend’s voice completely caught Tom off guard, and he could feel himself losing control. Choking back a sob, he turned and stumbled toward the door, but before he made it halfway across the room, two muscular arms wrapped him in a tight embrace. He immediately struggled against the unexpected contact, but Penhall held him firm, and eventually he gave up the fight. With a sob, he collapsed against his friend’s broad chest and allowed all his pent up pain and torment to flow through his tears.

Shocked by the level of Tom’s distress, a rush of clumsy platitudes tumbled from Penhall’s lips. “It's okay,” he murmured into Tom’s sweet-smelling hair. “Whatever’s wrong, it’ll be okay. Let it out, man, just let it out.”

But Tom knew it would never be okay, and as hot tears spilled from his tortured eyes, he could not dispel the thoughts of suicide that were beginning to infect his mind.


	29. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I apologise for the delay in posting, I have been busy clearing out my dad's house.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom lowered his binoculars and tilting his head from side to side, he stretched out his aching neck muscles. With Doug sitting next to him, he had spent five hours staring out of the window of the tiny, cramped storeroom of a clothing store, and during that time, neither officer had witnessed any illicit activity from within the derelict building across the road. As the hours ticked by, Tom began to think the whole case was a bust, and his mind started to wander. While he usually enjoyed being on a stakeout with Doug, this time, he was finding the experience excruciatingly awkward. It did not take a genius to figure out his friend was annoyed, and he could only guess what Janice had told Dorothy about their brief moment of intimacy. Doug’s on-again, off-again girlfriend was a hot-blooded New Yorker, and her acerbic—and often unwarranted—verbal attacks directed at the man she professed to love were a legendary source of amusement amongst the Jump Street officers. But this time, Tom found nothing funny about the situation, and he could well imagine the fiery, oral punishment his friend had endured for daring to hook Janice up with a queer._
> 
> _With the unspoken animosity hanging heavily in the room, Tom felt the overwhelming need to escape, and pushing back his chair, he stood up. “Bathroom break,” he muttered by way of explanation._
> 
> _Doug turned around, but before Tom could take flight, he grabbed him by the wrist, his left brow raising in question. “So, what happened last night? I thought you wanted to get laid.”_
> 
> _The memory of tight metal cuffs binding his wrists sent a jolt of panic through Tom’s body. His chest constricted, making it difficult for him to breathe, and pulling free from Penhall’s hold, he tucked his trembling hands under his armpits. “She wasn’t my type,” he answered a little too quickly._
> 
> _Penhall stayed silent for several seconds before the need to blurt out what was foremost on his mind finally got the better of him. “She said you started crying.”_
> 
> _Heat flamed Tom’s cheeks, and he shuffled uncomfortably. “That’s bullshit,” he mumbled, his eyes refusing to meet his friend’s inquisitive stare. “She’s a fucking liar.”_
> 
> _“Is she?” Penhall asked softly._
> 
> _The genuine concern inflected in his friend’s voice completely caught Tom off guard, and he could feel himself losing control. Choking back a sob, he turned and stumbled toward the door, but before he made it halfway across the room, two muscular arms wrapped him in a tight embrace. He immediately struggled against the unexpected contact, but Penhall held him firm, and eventually he gave up the fight. With a sob, he collapsed against his friend’s broad chest and allowed all his pent up pain and torment to flow through his tears._
> 
> _Shocked by the level of Tom’s distress, a rush of clumsy platitudes tumbled from Penhall’s lips. “It's okay,” he murmured into Tom’s sweet-smelling hair. “Whatever’s wrong, it’ll be okay. Let it out, man, just let it out.”_
> 
> _But Tom knew it would never be okay, and as hot tears spilled from his tortured eyes, he could not dispel the thoughts of suicide that were beginning to infect his mind._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35160225413/in/dateposted-public/)

**The following morning**

“I'm telling you, Coach, something’s not right. I think he might be cracking under the stress.”

Fuller’s expression became serious, and he studied Penhall’s worried face through narrowed eyes. “Are you telling me he's unstable?” 

Although loyal to a fault, Penhall knew he needed to voice his concerns. “I dunno, maybe,” he finally admitted. “I just know whatever happened at that fraternity changed Hanson, and not in a good way.”

“And Booker,” Fuller noted solemnly. “He’s always been unpredictable, but lying about his sick mother doesn't fit.”

“So, what do we do?” Penhall asked quietly, his dark eyes softening with concern.

Having given both Tom and Dennis the benefit of the doubt, Fuller knew the time had come to get tough. “Get Hanson,” he commanded. “It’s time we found out what kind of hazing ritual took place in the Pi Tau house.

**

**Six days later**

Holland’s snoring rumbled throughout the bedroom, the guttural sound grating heavily on Booker’s frazzled nerves. With the cacophonous noise thundering in his ears, sleep was elusive, and he fought back the urge to smother his bedmate with his pillow. But instead of committing a _crime passionnel_ that would have seen him serve a lengthy sentence in a state penitentiary, he rolled over and stared morosely out of the uncurtained window and into the night’s inky blackness. He longed for the first hint of dawn to color the sky, to watch its rays destroy the darkness with an array of muted pink and gold hues because with the break of day came his freedom. After enduring countless humiliating—and often brutal—sexual liaisons with Holland, the day of his release had arrived, and within a few hours, he would finally walk away from the degradation and resume his life where he had left off. 

Except it was never quite that simple. Just when Booker thought he had his life all figured out, fate had thrown him a curveball, and he knew nothing would ever be the same again. His life had changed irrevocably since agreeing to Holland’s _contract,_ and he was no longer the same self-assured man he had been just a few weeks before. As a master manipulator, Holland had managed to chip away at his confidence, leaving him feeling vulnerable and worthless. The insecurities that had plagued him during his teen years now bubbled just beneath the surface of his psyche, the self-doubt creating an unpleasant itch that steadily gnawed at his mind. But his rising levels of anxiety were not entirely defined by the concerns for his own welfare. In a few hours, he would escape from Holland’s physical and emotional constraints, leaving Jorge to fend, once again, on his own, and the knowledge burned painfully at his moral senses. The Latino was a pawn in a cruel, sexual game played by arrogant, perverted businessmen, and through the art of strategic, psychological mind control, he was now trapped in an elaborate network weaved by a man who was clearly deranged. Booker could not, in all consciousness, leave the young man at Holland’s mercy. However, although he prided himself on his ingenuity, he had no idea how to free Jorge from the tycoon’s sadistic clutches, and as the days ticked by, it was a conundrum that kept him awake at night. But he was fast running out of time. Zero hour had arrived, and he needed to think quickly or risk missing a golden opportunity to save a man who did not deserve to suffer a moment's more degradation at the hands of a maniac.

A weary sigh expelled from between his lips, and rolling onto his back, he racked his brain for an answer to his problem, but for the hundredth time, he came up blank. All he could think to do was plead with Holland and hope a spark of human decency still flickered within the darkness enveloping the mogul’s blackened heart.

Without warning, light flooded the room, followed seconds later by a warm hand squeezing Booker’s cock, the jolt of pain causing his body to jerk violently. Holland’s bacteria-laden breath violated his personal space, the rancid scent assaulting his nostrils, and he instinctively turned his head, a disgusted moue forming on his lips. Surprisingly, Holland appeared unperturbed by the young officer’s audacious show of disrespect, and moving in closer, he whispered directly into his ear. “What are you thinking about, lover?”

The mocking intimacy of the pet name heightened Booker’s level of loathing, and without thinking about the consequences of his answer, he spoke his mind. “Jorge.”

There was a noticeable shift in Holland’s visage, and pulling back, a cloud of suspicion darkened his brow, defining the fine wrinkles on his forehead. His eyes rolled fiercely, a glint of savageness glaring from his gaze, and sitting up, he placed a hand around Booker’s throat and squeezed ever so gently. “You’re lying in _my_ bed, and all you can think about is that cholo whore?” he articulated slowly, his manicured nails biting painfully into the young officer’s flesh. “Are you _asking_ for a beating?”

Panic quickened Dennis’ pulse, and his heart thumped rapidly in his chest. By initially threatening Tom’s welfare, in only a short space of time Holland had conditioned him to obey; to kowtow to every command, every humiliating sexual act until it became second nature. But with his freedom only hours away, a long forgotten echo of the _old_ Booker rose to the surface of his being, fighting its way through the fear and subservience until his thoughts bubbled forth in a rush of words. “I want to take him with me when I leave.”

Surprise arched Holland’s brow, followed seconds later by a slow, fiendish smile that curled the corners of his lips into a menacing sneer. Releasing his hand from around Booker’s throat, he studied his _plaything_ with mild amusement. “Are you attempting to _bargain_ with me, boy?”

Sensing an opportunity, Booker sat up so he could meet his oppressor’s gaze face-to-face. “Yes,” he replied guardedly, being careful to keep his tone moderate and non-threatening. “Maybe we can come to some arrangement.”

“Interesting,” Holland murmured, his eyes roving salaciously over Booker’s naked body. “But what is it you think you can offer me that I haven’t already taken?”

With nothing left to bargain, Booker realized he needed to up the ante or lose the battle. Fear formed a lump in his throat, and swallowing several times in quick succession, he struggled to keep his voice calm and steady. “If you don’t let Jorge go, I’ll talk Tom into releasing the tapes.”

Holland laughed at the insincerity behind the attempted intimidation. “My darling boy, somehow, I doubt Officer Hanson, the son of a decorated police officer killed in the line of duty will want the world to know a few college students managed to overpower him. Your threat has no substance. Leave the blackmailing to those of us who have the brains _and_ the brawn to carry it out.”

Booker’s face flushed red, and he quickly lowered his gaze. No matter what card he played, Holland always managed to find the upper hand. Once again, the tycoon had outwitted him, leaving him feeling emasculated and humiliated. He knew he was fighting a losing contest, but just as he was about to concede, Holland leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “You know, my sweet,” he crooned, his fingers playing with Booker’s cock. “Perhaps there _is_ something you could do for me.”

With his self-worth now in tatters, Booker barely registered the minacious tone in Holland’s voice. Instead, he clung to the last remaining hope that he might have actually found a way to liberate Jorge from a life of sexual, mental, and physical abuse, and ignoring the titillating sensation running down the length of his shaft, he focused his gaze on Holland’s emerald eyes. “If I agree, do you promise to let Jorge go?”

Holland’s tongue traced over the contours of Booker’s ear. “Of course,” he breathed, his fingers working over the young officer’s semi-hard erection. “All I want you to do is…”

As the tycoon’s fingers worked their magic, Booker closed his eyes and listened to the low voice whispering in his ear. But when his mind finally made sense of the request, his eyes flew open, and his hand clamped around Holland’s wrist, stilling his movements. “You can’t be serious!”

A wicked smile crinkled the edges of Holland’s eyes. “Oh, my beautiful boy, I’m _deadly_ serious. If you want your precious Jorge, those are my terms; take them or leave them. The choice is yours.”

Booker chewed anxiously at his lower lip, his mind in turmoil. He had one chance, and if he blew it, he was condemning Jorge to a life of hell. “But I can’t guarantee it,” he whispered, his dark eyes filling with panic. “You’re asking the impossible.”

After rearranging his pillow, Holland flopped casually back on the mattress and folded his arms behind his head. “You may not know this about me, Dennis, but I’m not much of a gambling man. However, I’d be prepared to wager my fortune that what _you_ deem as impossible _will_ happen. It may take a week, it may take a year, but it _will_ happen. And when it does, that’s when I receive my recompense.”

Confusion furrowed Booker’s brow. “But how will you know? I mean, if I don’t tell you—”

“Oh, I’ll know,” Holland growled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “You can trust me on that, boy. I have eyes and ears _everywhere,_ so don’t even think you can try to deceive me because if you do, I’ll make sure you live to regret it, got it? So, do we have a deal?”

Booker slowly nodded his head. There was a fifty-fifty chance the pact would become null and void due to forces outside his control, and Jorge would go free without him ever having to pay up. But on the flip side, there was a fifty-fifty chance Holland’s gamble would pay off, and then he would have to face the consequences of his decision. However, that was a risk he was willing to take.

**

**Later that day**

A flash of lightning tore open the afternoon sky, followed by the rumbling of distant thunder. The natural light filtering in through the window of Tom’s apartment dimmed, and ghostly shadows formed on the walls, the vague silhouettes shifting, stretching, changing shape as the sun played peek-a-boo behind the large cumulonimbus clouds rolling across the city. With the storm came a sudden drop in temperature, the coolness of the air raising the hairs on Tom’s forearms, the fine bumps interspersing with the crimson wounds crisscrossing his flesh. A bloody razor quivered between his finger and thumb, and closing his eyes, he drew the blade across his skin, slicing open a fresh lesion. An instant calm washed away his anxiety, and leaning back against the couch cushions, he closed his eyes and thought back to the one-sided conversation he’d had with Fuller. His captain had made it clear if he did not divulge what happened at the Pi Tau fraternity, he faced suspension pending an investigation. However, the threat had little impact on Tom, and without uttering a word, he had risen from his chair and walked out of the Chapel. Now, six days later, he was alone in his apartment, coping with the destruction of his life in the only way he knew how; self-harm.

Opening his eyes, he stared at the blood oozing from the fresh wound, and a bitter smile tilted his lips. One day, he would find the courage to slash his wrists and gain his ultimate freedom, but until then, he would find his release through injury alone.


	30. Flee from Me, Keeper of the Gloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: A flash of lightning tore open the afternoon sky, followed by the rumbling of distant thunder. The natural light filtering in through the window of Tom’s apartment dimmed, and ghostly shadows formed on the walls, the vague silhouettes shifting, stretching, changing shape as the sun played peek-a-boo behind the large cumulonimbus clouds rolling across the city. With the storm came a sudden drop in temperature, the coolness of the air raising the hairs on Tom’s forearms, the fine bumps interspersing with the crimson wounds crisscrossing his flesh. A bloody razor quivered between his finger and thumb, and closing his eyes, he drew the blade across his skin, slicing open a fresh lesion. An instant calm washed away his anxiety, and leaning back against the couch cushions, he closed his eyes and thought back to the one-sided conversation he’d had with Fuller. His Captain had made it clear if he did not divulge what happened at the Pi Tau fraternity, he faced suspension pending an investigation. However, the threat had little impact on Tom, and without uttering a word, he had risen from his chair and walked out of the Chapel. Now, six days later, he was alone in his apartment, coping with the destruction of his life in the only way he knew how; self-harm._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35928787716/in/dateposted-public/)

**Two hours later**

The remnants of the storm hung heavy in the atmosphere, adding to the gloom of the unlit apartment. Tom sat on the couch, his damaged arms laid out in front of him, the bloody razor still gripped tightly between his thumb and forefinger. He stared at the open window, watching in fascination as a cool breeze ruffled the net curtains, the channel of air rhythmically caving and billowing the fabric in an exotic dance of mesmerizing beauty. The hypnotizing sway reminded him of Salome and her veils, and closing his eyes, he visualized Brigid Bazlen’s portrayal of the voluptuous seductress in _King of Kings._ For the first time in almost a month he felt a stirring in his groin, and unbuttoning his jeans, he slipped a hand inside his boxers. However, when the tips of his fingers made contact with the silky flesh of his shaft, a wave of nausea rolled over him, instantly dampening his arousal, and quickly withdrawing his hand, he struggled to control his rising panic. Tears of frustration welled in his dark eyes, the opaque droplets clinging to his long lashes, blurring his vision. When a lone tear slid down his cheek, the forgotten razor slipped from between his fingers, embedding in the thick-piled carpet, and covering his face with his hands, he gave in to his sorrow. Loud, racking sobs filled the apartment, the weight of his grief bearing down on him, smothering him with icy tendrils of guilt, shame, and regret. He was a lost soul, his life no longer had purpose, his existence no longer had meaning. He was a hollow shell, a broken shadow of the man he had once been, and all because he hadn’t fought hard enough to stop McCarter from viciously violating his innocence. As a police officer, it was a bitter pill to swallow knowing he could have prevented his rape if only he hadn’t panicked and had, instead, used his wealth of training to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. The knowledge weighed heavily on his mind, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was the reason Booker had deserted him. In his confusion, he overlooked the fact that the Pi Taus had also easily overpowered the dark-haired officer. He could only see his own failures, his own missed opportunities, and the glaring inadequacies of his character were slowly eating him up inside. He was an incompetent, pathetic excuse of a man, and he didn’t blame Booker for abandoning him. His self-loathing attitude was also the reason he had pushed Penhall away, refusing to speak to him when he phoned or turned up on his doorstep. He did not want the officer’s misunderstood sympathy because he was certain if his friend knew the real reason behind his breakdown, he too would reject him, and it was easier to shut himself away than face the pain of losing another friend. 

Gradually, his wretched sobs subsided, and sniffing loudly, he wiped a shaky hand across his bloodshot eyes. His forearms throbbed painfully, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache stabbing behind his right eye. Tired and disillusioned, he curled up on the couch and closed his eyes. The fall breeze blowing in through the curtains cooled his heated skin, and he shivered slightly. But his weariness prevented him from getting up and closing the window. Instead, he pulled down his shirt sleeves, and wrapping his arms around his torso, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**

**Later that evening**

A loud banging jarred Tom back to wakefulness. He jerked upright, his mind only semiconscious, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he struggled to orient himself in the darkness. Once he realized he was in his apartment, and the loud noise was someone knocking on his door, relief expelled a rush of air from his lungs. But his comfort was short-lived, and visions of Michael McCarter’s mocking expression had him searching for his gun before he remembered he’d surrendered it to Penhall the day after his _talk_ with Fuller. Getting to his feet, he winced as his bare foot made contact with the razor blade embedded in the carpet. Fortunately, it barely pierced the skin, and reaching down, he picked it up off the floor and held it in his hand. It wasn’t as effective as a gun, but he could inflict a painful wound if he aimed at McCarter’s face, and gripping it tightly in his fingers, he slowly approached the door. Another loud knock had his heart leaping into his throat, and creeping forward, he pressed his eye against the peephole. But when he saw who was standing in the hallway, the razor slipped from his grasp, and his fingers scrabbled frantically at the chain. He eventually released it from its track, and unlatching the deadbolt, he yanked open the door.

“Dennis! Jesus! Where have you—”

A brown paper package slammed into his chest. “Here,” Dennis interrupted, his eyes not quite meeting the young officer’s startled gaze. “I hope this makes you happy.”

Confused by the turn of events, Tom’s fingers clutched at the wrinkled bag. “Happy? I don’t understand. Dennis, what’s going on? I’ve been worried sick about—”

Ignoring the barrage of questions, Booker turned away. “Fuck you, Hanson,” he muttered under his breath, and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he walked toward the stairwell, the sound of Tom’s desperate voice ringing painfully in his ears.

**

**Twenty minutes later**

Although Booker had left Holland’s home without incident, he did not feel truly liberated until the moment he stepped over the threshold of his apartment. The burden of his ordeal still weighed heavily on his shoulders, but knowing he had managed to free Jorge from the sexual and physical abuse gave him some measure of solace, and it almost made the degradation and hardship he had endured worth it. 

Almost.

With a strained smile, he turned and placed a comforting arm around the young Latino’s shoulders. “So, this is it. Home sweet home.”

Jorge smiled politely, his eyes widening ever so slightly as he took in his surroundings. The small, untidy apartment was an obvious step down from the luxury he had grown accustomed to at Holland’s country hideaway. However, he realized beggars could not be choosers, and as his mama had often told him when he was growing up: _El hogar está donde está el corazón_ (Home is where the heart is), and there was no doubt _his_ heart now belonged to the beautiful, brave man standing beside him.

“It’s nice,” he lied, and snaking his arms around Booker’s waist, he snuggled in close. “But you don’t look happy? Is it because of me? Do _I_ make you sad?”

Embarrassed by the young man’s affections, Booker gently disengaged from the hug and quickly busied himself by picking up the discarded clothing littering the room. “Of course not,” he replied softly. “I’m just tired, and, you know, adjusting to being home.”

With Jorge’s new-found freedom came an increased level of confidence he had not known existed, and stepping forward, he placed a hand on Booker’s shoulder and asked the question foremost on his mind. “And that man you visited... that _Tom._ What about him?”

“What about him?” Booker snapped irritably. “He’s nobody, just someone I work with.”

“Oh,” Jorge replied quietly. “I thought perhaps he was your boyfriend.”

A telltale twitch of Booker’s eyelid revealed just how much the innocent observation pained him. But he was an expert at disguising his feelings, and a well-practiced sneer curled his lip. “Hanson? You’re kidding, right? He’s _definitely_ not my type.”

Seizing his chance, Jorge tilted his head to one side and flashed the young officer a seductive smile. _“Sooo,_ does that mean you’re single?”

Backed into a corner, Booker knew he needed to answer the question honestly, but he was wary about giving Jorge the wrong idea about their so-called relationship. While he had deep feelings for the young man standing before him, given the circumstances of their friendship, he was reluctant to take advantage of him. Jorge had spent the last few years indulging the sexual fantasies of a serial abuser, and he needed time to heal his psychological and physical scars. After years under the control of Holland’s cruel dictatorship, there was a high likelihood he was emotionally stunted, and Booker did not feel equipped to cope with such a delicate matter. Despite the abuse, during his years of incarceration, Jorge had formed an unhealthy attachment to Holland, and Booker was determined not to become his substitute _Sugar Daddy._ While it would be extremely easy to agree to a casual relationship based solely on great sex, he understood that Jorge deserved more. The younger man needed someone to love him unconditionally, to shower him with the affection and respect that had been sorely lacking in the last few years of his life. But these were serious undertakings Booker knew he could not commit to; at least not until he sorted out his own life. He had no idea if he still had a job to return to, and if he did, he was certain Fuller would bust his hump for at least the next few months just to teach him a lesson. But all that paled in comparison to his biggest dilemma; Tom. But that was a problem for another day, his priority was setting the ground rules with Jorge before things got out of hand.

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” he declared softly. “I think we should get to know each other as friends and see what happens.”

A soft pout formed on Jorge’s full, enticing lips. “Don’t you enjoy having sex with me?”

Booker’s stomach flip-flopped with a hot desire, and he swallowed down a moan. “Jesus,” he whispered, “I _loved_ having sex with you. But there’s more to a relationship than just fucking, Jorge. Don’t you want to go out and experience the world before settling down?”

With a devilish grin, Jorge stepped forward, and reaching out a hand, he lightly cupped Booker’s crotch and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’m not talking about settling down,” he murmured, his enticing lips brushing against Booker's cheek. “I’m talking about you fucking me till I come. Don’t you wanna play with me?”

A fiery ball ignited in the pit of Booker’s stomach, and for the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to believe no harm would come from giving in to temptation. Jorge was nineteen-years-old, and in the eyes of the law, a consenting adult. However, there were extenuating circumstances. Only God himself knew of the horrors he had witnessed and endured during that time, although, after experiencing two-and-a-half weeks of sexual abuse at the hands of the mogul, Booker had _some_ idea of the extent of the maltreatment. Therefore, he was wary of exacerbating the psychological damage Holland had inflicted on the young man. But his brief encounter with Tom had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he longed to take Jorge into his arms and forget the last month of his life. He wanted to erase all memories of Hanson from his mind, and immersing himself in the physical wonders of Jorge’s beautiful body would be the distraction he needed. So when his new friend’s soft pout brushed over his mouth, he found himself wavering, and parting his lips, he kissed him tenderly. 

Encouraged by the response, Jorge pressed his body against Booker’s, his cock grinding against the hard mound of his lover’s growing erection. “Fuck me,” he gasped into the depths of Booker’s moist mouth. 

The desperately spoken plea startled Booker back to reality, and pulling away, he wiped a trembling hand over his lips, his wide-eyed gaze filled with dismay. “No, no, no,” he protested softly. “Jorge, we can’t. Don’t you see how wrong this is?”

Confused by the rejection, Jorge’s smooth brow wrinkled into a deep furrow. “But how can it be wrong if it feels so right?” he asked innocently.

It was a valid argument, and Booker wished his conscience would shut the fuck up and allow him to enjoy just one more night of carnal bliss with the beautiful man standing before him. The hypnotic gaze reflecting deep from Jorge’s trusting eyes held him in a trance, and he wondered if he was strong enough to reject the advances of such a beautiful, alluring man. But he knew a moment’s happiness would lead to a lifetime of regret, and summoning all his inner strength, he made his decision. “I dunno, but it just is,” he explained quietly. “Let’s take it slow, okay? We’ve both been through a lot, and we need time to adjust.”

With a sigh, Jorge lowered his eyes to the floor. “Okay,” he muttered moodily.

Relief eased the tension in Booker’s shoulders, and his muscles relaxed. “Great,” he replied a little too quickly. “Now, how ‘bout we get something to eat?”

Shaking his head, Jorge’s gaze remained stubbornly focused on the worn linoleum. “I’m tired, I wanna go to sleep.”

Surprised by the younger man’s sudden mood change, Booker rubbed an awkward hand over the back of his neck. “Um, okay. You can take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Jorge peered up at him through his long lashes, his look so innocent, so beguiling. “I don’t wanna sleep alone.”

“Shit,” Booker muttered. He could feel his resolve floundering, and taking his friend by the hand, he gently squeezed his fingers. “All right, we’ll share the bed. But I need some time alone, so I’ll join you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Jorge conceded, a sweet smile curving his lips.

But little did Booker know, his problems had only just begun.

**

Tom sat hunched on the floor with his head in his hands. The two VHS cassettes lay discarded at his feet, the evidence of his rape forever memorialized on the T-60 tapes. He felt sick, and yet, in an odd way, he also felt immensely relieved. At least now he could destroy the video documentation, and no one would ever have to know what happened in the basement of the Pi Tau house.

But with his relief came questions. How had Booker managed to procure the tapes, and did it have anything to do with his disappearance? The mystery gnawed at his brain, and as much as he craved the solitude of his apartment, safe from the outside world, he knew he had no choice. If he wanted answers, he needed to visit Booker.


	31. Ripping a Hole in a Paper Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Please note: I didn't carry on with Booker's speech impediment throughout the end of the story because I thought it would make the text too difficult to read.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x ******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom sat hunched on the floor with his head in his hands. The two VHS cassettes lay discarded at his feet, the evidence of his rape forever memorialized on the T-60 tapes. He felt sick, and yet, in an odd way, he also felt immensely relieved. At least now he could destroy the video documentation, and no one would ever have to know what happened in the basement of the Pi Tau house._
> 
> _But with his relief came questions. How had Booker managed to procure the tapes, and did it have anything to do with his disappearance? The mystery gnawed at his brain, and as much as he craved the solitude of his apartment, safe from the outside world, he knew he had no choice. If he wanted answers, he needed to visit Booker._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35581186610/in/dateposted-public/)

Booker stared out of the partly open window, his face pulled tight with emotion. The mischievous spark that usually shone from his dark eyes was noticeably absent, replaced instead by an uncharacteristic dullness. Between his fingers dangled a forgotten cigarette, its noxious fumes rising from the tip, choking the stale air. But he barely registered the irritating haze wafting in front of his eyes. The torturous memories plaguing his thoughts were so vivid, they blotted out reality, and he found himself trapped within his mind, reliving every brutal moment he had endured at the hands of the Pi Tau Keymaster. If he screwed his eyes closed, he could almost pinpoint the exact moment when Holland had claimed the last remaining shred of his dignity, ripping it from his ravaged, bleeding body, thereby sealing his fate forever. It was at that precise moment in time a little piece of his soul had died, leaving him damaged and bereft. Without his self-respect, he was nothing more than a puppet, and he wondered if he would ever regain his sense of self, or if like so many before him, he was destined to die a victim, forever a slave to all of humanity. 

A single tear slid down his pale cheek, and stubbing his spent cigarette out on the windowsill, he walked over to the small kitchenette and picked up an open bottle of Johnnie Walker. He quickly downed several large swallows, savoring the comforting warmth that flared in his throat before the alcohol ignited a pleasing flame in his belly. But even though the heat calmed him, the sweet, smoky flavor failed to eradicate Holland’s essence from his mouth, and slamming the bottle down on the countertop, he struggled to hold back his tears. Never before had he felt so dispossessed, so utterly alone. He physically ached for contact, and he longed to radiate in the warmth of another’s body, to feel their heartbeat pounding rhythmically against his naked chest. Because only then would his soul come back to life, only then would the numbness disappear, and only then would he feel desirable.

A hesitant rap at his door pulled him back to reality, and wiping the stray tear from his cheek, he swallowed down another gulp of scotch for good measure. He was in no mood for visitors, and he wondered who would be knocking on his door at 9 o’clock on a Tuesday evening. But with no peephole installed, he would not know the answer without actually opening the door. He paused for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons, but when another knock, this one louder and more urgent rattled the frame, he decided he had no choice, and walking across the room, he yanked open the door.

The sight of Tom standing in his hallway did not help to lighten his melancholy mood, and his eyes narrowed into angry slits. “What do you want?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Tom walked through the door. “We need to talk.”

“Gee, Hanson, why don’t you come in,” Booker muttered sarcastically, and closing the door, he turned and glared at his unwelcome visitor. “Well? I’m listening. Say what you’ve gotta say and get the hell out of my apartment.”

Disturbed by the level of Booker’s hostility, Tom refused to react to the blatant attempt at provocation. Instead, he channeled his inner serenity and voiced his concerns. “Are you okay? You seem kinda… agitated.”

Booker snorted loudly, but his dark eyes lacked any trace of humor. “Agitated? Hmm, I wonder why that is.”

Annoyed by his friend’s cryptic commentary, Tom expelled a frustrated sigh. “That’s kinda the point, Dennis, I _don’t_ know why that is. So why don’t you fill me in, starting with where the hell you’ve been the last few weeks and finishing with how you obtained those tapes.”

Memories of his abuse once again flooded Booker’s mind, and his face twisted in anguish. Caught off guard, he tried desperately to regain the upper hand, to prove to Hanson he was still the rakish sonofabitch he had always been. But the caustic comeback caught in his throat, and he stood mute, unable to communicate, unable to keep up the deception, unable to mask his pain.

The emotional distress shining from his friend’s dark eyes brought a lump to Tom’s throat, and before he had time to think about the consequences of his actions, he stepped forward and brushed his lips over Booker’s quivering pout. The brief contact sent a shiver of arousal down his spine, and flustered and confused by his overt display of affection, he stepped back, his face flaming red. He had no idea what had made him act so impulsively, and uncertainty quickened his pulse. His stomach rolled with a mixture of nerves and humiliation, and he quickly lowered his eyes to the floor, too embarrassed to meet Booker’s gaze. But as a lengthy silence hung in the air, he dared to peer up through his long lashes, and he drew in a sharp intake of breath when his eyes settled on his friend’s face. The dark-haired officer’s stony expression sent a chill of doubt through his bones, and dropping his gaze, a shy, hesitant smile tilted his lips. “Shit,” he murmured, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. 

Anger stiffened Booker’s spine, and his blood pumped hot and heavy throughout his tense body. He fought not to lose his temper, but the resentment in his eyes revealed his inner fury. “Don’t fuck with me, Hanson,” he muttered coldly. “I’m not in the mood for any more of your games.”

Tom’s cheeks burned a deeper shade of red, the blush spreading down his neck, mottling his flawless skin, and lifting his gaze, he stared at Booker with confused eyes. “G-Games?” he spluttered. “I-I—”

Booker’s expression remained frosty. “You... were... what?” the furious officer asked, biting down on each word as though he were ripping the sentence apart with his bare teeth. _“Consoling_ me? Making _fun_ of me? Or are you trying to tell me in some clumsy way you want me to bend you over the back of the couch and fuck you like a bitch? Is that it? Huh?”

Fear widened Tom’s eyes and stumbling backward, he collided with the wall. “N-No! Jesus, Dennis! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Booker tilted his head to one side, his top lip curling into something resembling a smile. But the twisted caricature only heightened Tom’s unease, and the young officer flattened his body against the wall, his palms leaving traces of sweat on the nicotine stained paint. “D-Dennis?”

With lightning speed, Booker grabbed Tom’s left wrist in his hand and yanked him forward. Tom stumbled into the dark-haired officer’s arms, but before he could pull away, a warm mouth engulfed him. He struggled to break free from the forceful kiss, but Booker slammed him back against the wall, blanketing him with his muscular body. Aroused by the evidence of his friend's masculinity grinding against him, Tom moaned loudly, but the sound was swallowed up in the depths of the warm, cavernous mouth greedily devouring him. The contours of Booker's body molded perfectly with his own, and he marveled at how _right_ it felt, how unbelievably _exhilarating._ But when Dennis' hands started to rove over his body with a hunger born of an insatiable, unstoppable desire, his elation slowly turned to panic. Memories of his rape flooded his mind and choking on his mounting terror, he started to struggle.

“St- _op!”_ he gasped, his hands clawing frantically at Booker's chest. “Stop! _STOP!”_

But the lingering taste of Tom's saliva was like an elixir to Booker, the sweetness instantly ridding him of the sapidity of Holland’s semen that had managed to permeate his taste buds during the long hours of his abuse. The honey-flavored juices now exploding on his tongue were so intoxicating, his mind lost all focus, and he had no thought of the damage he was causing his friend. Without pause, he grabbed hold of Tom’s wrists and wrenched them above his head so he could flatten himself closer against the writhing body wrestling beneath him. The line between right and wrong had blurred, and he became fixated on eradicating Holland’s salty tang. Without care or finesse, his tongue ravaged every corner of Tom’s mouth, absorbing the young officer’s juices into his saliva. His erection strained against his tight-fitting jeans, and widening his stance, he forcefully rubbed his burgeoning cock against Tom’s crotch, humping him as inelegantly as a horny dog. He had passed the point of no return, his mind had snapped, and as far as he was concerned, there were no consequences because he no longer cared who he hurt along the way, or how his actions might be perceived. He was a man on a mission, and his only thought was getting off.

Terrified Booker might escalate the molestation to rape, Tom struggled to break free, but the brawny officer easily overpowered him, and so he did the next best thing; he bit down hard, his teeth ripping through the soft flesh of the tongue plundering his mouth. 

“THUN-OF-A-BITCH!” Booker yelled, his damaged tongue impeding his speech, and staggering backward, his hand flew to his mouth. “What the _FUCK_ ith your problem?”

Fury blazed in Tom’s eyes, and raising his hand, he struck Booker hard across the face. “YOU BASTARD!” he screamed, his face contorting into a twisted mask of anger. “HOW COULD YOU FORCE YOURSELF ON ME LIKE THAT AFTER WHAT HAPPENED? IN CASE YOU’VE FORGOTTEN, I WAS RAPED, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I WAS FUCKING _RAPED!”_

A look of confusion flitted across Booker’s face. _“Forthed_ mythelf on you?” he enunciated with difficulty, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. _“You_ kithed _me!”_

Although the truth of Booker’s statement had him faltering, Tom was not about to let his friend off the hook. “That doesn’t mean I gave you permission to paw me like a fucking oversexed pervert! It was barely even a kiss, Booker, it was—”

“Do you know what your problem is?” Booker snarled, his swollen tongue throbbing painfully. “You’re a prick tease, Hanson. You’re a fucking prick tease with repressed homosexual fantasies. Maybe if you went out and picked up a guy who’d be willing to fuck you up the ass, you’d finally get the satisfaction you’ve been craving!”

With the crass statement ringing in his ears, Tom’s jaw slackened, and he stared back at Booker in shock. “What happened to you?” he whispered, his chocolate-brown eyes shining with concern. 

Tears blurred Booker’s vision, but he swiped an angry hand over his eyes before they had a chance to take hold. “Get out,” he muttered, his voice wavering with pent-up emotion. “Get out before I throw you out.”

But Tom was not about to leave until his friend divulged the secret of his whereabouts over the last few weeks, and squaring his shoulders, he slowly shook his head. “Not until you tell me how you got the tapes. You at least owe me that.”

A stubborn pout formed on Booker’s lips, quickly followed by an expression of pain that shimmered briefly across his face before being swallowed by his black mood. “What do you care? You’ve got your _precious_ tapes, no one's going to see what _I_ did to you, so what the hell does it matter? Maybe you should be thanking me instead of fucking attacking me.”

For the briefest of moments, a spark of anger flickered in Tom's eyes. “You _forced_ yourself on me!” he retorted indignantly, but when he recognized the genuine look of misery reflecting from Booker’s dark eyes, compassion extinguished his outrage. “Okay,” he conceded softly, “I’ll let it go… for now. But I want you to know one thing. If you _ever_ try something like that on me again, I'll beat the crap out of you with my bare hands, understood?”

Too tired and disillusioned to defend himself, Booker nodded his head, and without waiting to see Tom from his apartment, he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door closed.

Tom started to leave, but before he had made it halfway across the room, he stopped. Turning slowly around, he stared thoughtfully at the closed bedroom door. He was on a quest for answers, and so far, all he had were more questions. It was obvious Booker was hiding something, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the nervous energy he used to thrive on when he had a case to solve. Tom Hanson the cop had re-emerged, and with him came a long-forgotten determination. For reasons he did not understand, Booker had turned his back on him, and he would be damned if he would let the sonofabitch get away with treating him like shit without an explanation.

Therefore, against his better judgment, he threw caution to the wind and walked toward the bedroom door.


	32. Don't Look Back in Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tears blurred Booker’s vision, but he swiped an angry hand over his eyes before they had a chance to take hold. “Get out,” he muttered, his voice wavering with pent-up emotion. “Get out before I throw you out.”_
> 
> _But Tom was not about to leave until his friend divulged the secret of his whereabouts over the last few weeks, and squaring his shoulders, he slowly shook his head. “Not until you tell me how you got the tapes. You at least owe me that.”_
> 
> _A stubborn pout formed on Booker’s lips, quickly followed by an expression of pain that shimmered briefly across his face before being swallowed by his black mood. “What do you care? You’ve got your precious tapes, no one's going to see what I did to you, so what the hell does it matter? Maybe you should be thanking me instead of fucking attacking me.”_
> 
> _For the briefest of moments, a spark of anger flickered in Tom's eyes. “You forced yourself on me!” he retorted indignantly, but when he recognized the genuine look of misery reflecting from Booker’s dark eyes, compassion extinguished his outrage. “Okay,” he conceded softly, “I’ll let it go… for now. But I want you to know one thing. If you ever try something like that on me again, I'll beat the crap out of you with my bare hands, understood?”_
> 
> _Too tired and disillusioned to defend himself, Booker nodded his head, and without waiting to see Tom from his apartment, he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door closed._
> 
> _Tom started to leave, but before he had made it halfway across the room, he stopped. Turning slowly around, he stared thoughtfully at the closed bedroom door. He was on a quest for answers, and so far, all he had were more questions. It was obvious Booker was hiding something, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the nervous energy he used to thrive on when he had a case to solve. Tom Hanson the cop had re-emerged, and with him came a long-forgotten determination. For reasons he did not understand, Booker had turned his back on him, and he would be damned if he would let the sonofabitch get away with treating him like shit without an explanation._
> 
> _Therefore, against his better judgment, he threw caution to the wind and walked toward the bedroom door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35837544571/in/dateposted-public/)

Once inside the inner sanctum of his bedroom, Booker ran a shaky hand through his dark hair. His confrontation with Tom had left him feeling confused and more than a little guilty. He had thought his affection for his fellow officer was a thing of the past, but he now realized his devotion was as powerful as ever before. For the briefest of moments, he had relished in the sensation of his friend writhing beneath him, locked within the sexual energy flowing from their two bodies, while savoring the uniqueness of Tom’s vibrant juices. But the intensity of their coupling had been fleeting, destroyed by memories of rape and abuse, leaving them both feeling resentful and unfulfilled.

With a sigh, his eyes focused on the naked man lying asleep on his bed. Jorge could give him the physical love he so desperately craved, but not the emotional attachment he longed for in a partner. After suffering years of sexual exploitation, the young pool boy was both mentally and socially impaired, and although Booker's feelings were genuine, he could not see himself engaging in a long-term relationship with someone so emotionally damaged. However, as his gaze roved hungrily over the sleeping man’s bronzed flesh, he wondered what real harm it would do to succumb to temptation just for one night. After all, Jorge had given out all the right signals, and Booker was tired of always being the protector. For once, he wanted to forget about everyone else, give in to his selfish needs and receive the comfort he so desperately craved without guilt or fear of reprisal. He just wanted to feel loved.

Therefore, with his mind firmly made up, he started to undress. But just as he pulled his tee shirt over his head, the door swung open, and in walked Tom. 

Shock animated both men’s faces, but Tom’s expression soon turned to one of complete devastation, and without uttering a word, he stumbled from the room.

“Hanson, wait!” Booker cried out, and throwing his discarded tee shirt to the floor, he hurried after his friend. “I can explain!”

Spinning around, Tom confronted Booker, his eyes blazing with a mixture of hurt and anger. “EXPLAIN? _EXPLAIN?_ WHAT’S TO EXPLAIN?” he shrieked, his hands waving crazily in front of his face. “YOU PIN ME AGAINST A WALL AND DRY HUMP ME WHEN ALL THE TIME YOUR FUCKING _BOYFRIEND_ IS IN THE OTHER ROOM! JESUS CHRIST, BOOKER, EVEN FOR YOU THAT’S AN ALL-TIME LOW.”

“AND ONCE AGAIN, YOU’RE JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS!” Booker yelled, the awkwardness of his predicament immediately putting him on the defensive. “SO WHY DON’T YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME EXPLAIN!”

Resentment continued to shine from Tom’s brown eyes, but his explosive anger subsided, the loss of outrage leaving him feeling shaky and neurotic. “What’s to explain?” he whispered. “You played me, you made me believe you were in love with me, and when my feelings…” But before he could humiliate himself any further, his voice trailed off, and he shuffled uncomfortably, his gaze lowering to the floor.

Booker’s heart hammered in his chest, and his palms grew sweaty with nervous excitement. “When your feelings _what?”_ he asked expectantly, his expressive eyes dancing with impatience. 

Tom’s gaze remained firmly fixed on the toes of Booker’s boots. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled into his chest. “Not anymore.”

Sensing he was about to lose Tom forever, Booker reached out and taking hold of his trembling hand, he gently squeezed his fingers. “It _does_ matter. You just need to let me—”

“Dennis?”

Both Hanson and Booker turned toward the sound of the hesitant voice. Jorge stood in the bedroom doorway, his dark eyes blurred with sleep. There was a childlike innocence in his unabashed nakedness, but for Tom, it was a flagrant display of exhibitionism, and he lowered his gaze again, his cheeks flaming red. But Booker showed no signs of embarrassment, and walking across the room, he laid his palm against the young Latino’s sleep-flushed cheek. “It’s okay, Jorge. We’re only talking. Go back to bed.”

Jorge’s eyes narrowed as he studied Tom’s partially hidden face. “Is that Tom?” he asked quietly, his lower lip pushing into a soft pout.

“Yes, it is,” Booker replied gently. “But now’s not the time for introductions. Go back to bed and I’ll—”

The loud slam of a door cut Booker off mid-sentence. He didn’t need to turn around to know Tom had left, the smug glint in Jorge’s eyes relayed the information as effectively as a public newscast. For a fraction of a second, he considered running after his friend, but he was too weary, and he honestly did not know how to begin to explain his situation with Jorge. It was a delicate issue, and after Tom’s near slip-up, he needed time to think, otherwise, he risked jeopardizing their relationship before it had even begun.

“C’mon,” he invited softly, his arm wrapping companionably around Jorge’s shoulders. “Let’s go to bed.”

Jorge’s lips curved into a satisfied smirk. He had learned a lot about subtle manipulation from Ingram Holland, and he’d be damned if he would lose Booker to another man before he had a chance to claim him as his own.

**

**The following morning**

The sound of knocking wrenched Tom from the violence of his nightmare, and jerking forcibly awake, he bolted upright. Panic constricted his lungs, and he gasped for breath, his fingers clutching frantically at the rumpled bed sheet beneath him. Even in consciousness, the horror of his visions continued to plague him, mocking him with their ability to cripple him with their nocuous reflections. Haunted by a specter of his past, he was trapped within a memory, the vulturous imagery clawing at his sanity with its taloned fingers. Tears filled his eyes, and wrapping his arms around his head, he started to rock, his movements unconsciously falling into rhythm with the loud banging reverberating around his apartment. “Shut up shut up shut up shut up _SHUT UUUP!”_ he cried, the final words of his desperate mantra transforming into a tortured scream.

The incessant knocking ceased, and falling back against his pillow, he jammed the heels of his hands against his eyes and stifled a strangled sob. Painful images continued to echo throughout his mind, but just when he thought he would succumb to the darkness, a loud voice pulled him back into the light. “TOM! IT’S ME! LET ME IN OR I’M KICKING DOWN THE DOOR!”

Quickly wiping the tears from his eyes, Tom climbed from the bed and hurried into the living room. His quivering fingers fumbled with the chain lock, but he finally released it and drawing back the deadbolt, he threw open the door.

The first thing Booker noticed was Tom’s tear-stained face; the second was the dozens of cuts adorning his forearms. Shocked by the level of self-harm, he grasped hold of both of Tom’s wrists, the force of his grip painfully crushing the young officer’s bones. “What the hell is this?” he growled.

Tom yanked his arms away and folded them protectively across his chest. “If you came here to lecture me, you can fuck off back to your boyfriend, ‘cause none of this is your business.”

Frustrated by Tom’s attitude, Booker wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he saw sense. But a part of him understood his friend’s resistance. Neither of them had handled things well since Tom’s rape, and now, their lives were unraveling before their very eyes. Therefore, instead of losing his temper, he took a deep, calming breath before speaking. “Tommy, you need to speak to a doctor. You can’t go on like this.”

Turning away, Tom walked over to the window and stared down at the traffic below. “I don’t want to speak to a doctor,” he muttered in a barely audible voice. “The only person I wanted to speak to abandoned me.”

Guilt reddened Booker’s face, and his heart plummeted in his chest. He realized now he had made a mistake by leaving Tom when he was still so vulnerable. Once again, his impulsiveness had hurt the man he loved, and he wished he had thought about his plan before rushing headlong into a situation that had ultimately destroyed not only a part of his soul but had left Tom believing he did not care. He had focused so much on retrieving the tapes, he had forgotten to be a real friend, and now he was paying the price. Even though he had given Tom the evidence he so desperately wanted destroyed, the young officer resented him, and it would take something of a miracle for them to get their friendship back on track. However, although Booker was not a religious man, he did believe in karma, and after everything he and Tom had endured, he was confident the universe would make things right.

“I didn’t abandon you, Tommy,” he replied with a weary sigh, and stepping into the apartment, he closed the door so they could have complete privacy without fear of prying eyes. “I think once you hear what I have to say, you’ll feel differently.”

Turning around, Tom gazed impassively at his friend. “So talk.”

Embarrassment colored Booker’s cheeks, and he shuffled uncomfortably. “I can’t. Not now. Jorge’s waiting in the car.”

A fiery spark of jealousy flickered in Tom’s eyes. “Well, we can’t keep your _boyfriend_ waiting, can we,” he stated, the obvious sarcasm raising the timbre of his voice.

Annoyance marred Booker’s handsome face. “He’s _not_ my boyfriend!” he snapped.

“But you sleep with him,” Tom pressed, not willing to let the matter go.

Booker thought back to the night before. After his brief fight with Tom, he had needed comfort, and when he returned to the bedroom, he had willingly allowed Jorge to seduce him. But his guilt soon got the better of him, and he had called a halt to their intimate encounter before it reached the point of no return. Jorge had sulked, using all his wily charms to try to persuade him to change his mind, but Booker had remained resolute. As much as he craved human contact, he would not take advantage of an emotionally damaged man.

With Tom waiting impatiently for his rebuttal, he knew he had no choice but to answer truthfully. “We have, but not anymore,” he admitted softly.

Tom’s eyes lowered to the floor. “I thought so.”

Sadness softened Booker’s eyes. “Please, Tommy, it’s not what you think,” he appealed softly. “Just give me a few hours and I’ll come back and explain everything. Okay?”

“Why can’t you explain it now?” Tom asked stubbornly. “If it’s that important, why wait?”

“Because I’m taking Jorge to see a doctor,” Booker replied frankly. “But I’ll come back alone after his appointment, I promise.”

Somewhat surprised by the answer, Tom’s shoulders relaxed. “Is he sick?”

The muscles in Booker’s jaw tightened. “Not exactly. He just hasn’t seen one for a while. So, is it okay if I come back?”

Tom chewed anxiously on his lower lip before answering. “Yeah, okay. But don’t fuck with me, Booker, I want the truth about _everything._ Got it?”

“Got it,” Booker sighed, and with a parting twitch of his lips that didn’t quite form into a smile, he left the apartment.

Tom stood in the middle of the living room, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. While more than a little intrigued by the ambiguity of Booker’s comments, he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the truth. The mysterious Jorge had appeared out of nowhere, as had the tapes, which meant they were, in some way, connected. Glancing down at the tapes, he visualized Michael McCarter walking past the line of pledges, his lips pulled back in a predatory smile. _“We video every final initiation and the tape is then handed over to our Keymaster, a trusted Pi Tau alumnus.”_

The echoes from his past sent a shiver down Tom’s spine, and he wrapped his arms protectively around his torso. Booker had found the Keymaster, and if the man was anything like the current Pi Taus, Tom knew his friend would have experienced a whole lot of psychological and physical pain. It was a realization that weighed heavily on his heart, and he longed for the moment when Booker returned, so they could begin to put the ghosts from their past behind them.


	33. True Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Fury blazed in Tom’s eyes, and raising his hand, he struck Booker hard across the face. “YOU BASTARD!” he screamed, his face contorting into a twisted mask of anger. “HOW COULD YOU FORCE YOURSELF ON ME LIKE THAT AFTER WHAT HAPPENED? IN CASE YOU’VE FORGOTTEN, I WAS RAPED, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I WAS FUCKING RAPED!”_
> 
> _A look of confusion flitted across Booker’s face. “Forthed mythelf on you?” he enunciated with difficulty, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. “You kithed me!”_
> 
> _Although the truth of Booker’s statement had him faltering, Tom was not about to let his friend off the hook. “That doesn’t mean I gave you permission to paw me like a fucking oversexed pervert! It was barely even a kiss, Booker, it was—”_
> 
> _“Do you know what your problem ith?” Booker snarled, his swollen tongue throbbing painfully. “You’re a prick tease, Hanson. You’re a fucking prick tease with repressed homosexual fantasies. Maybe if you went out and picked up a guy who’d be willing to fuck you up the ass, you’d finally get the satisfaction you’ve been craving!”_
> 
> _With the crass statement ringing in his ears, Tom’s jaw slackened, and he stared back at Booker in shock. “What happened to you?” he whispered, his chocolate-brown eyes shining with concern._
> 
> _Tears blurred Booker’s vision, but he swiped an angry hand over his eyes before they had a chance to take hold. “Get out,” he muttered, his voice wavering with pent-up emotion. “Get out before I throw you out.”_
> 
> _But Tom was not about to leave until his friend divulged the secret of his whereabouts over the last few weeks, and squaring his shoulders, he slowly shook his head. “Not until you tell me how you got the tapes. You at least owe me that.”_
> 
> _A stubborn pout formed on Booker’s lips, quickly followed by an expression of pain that shimmered briefly across his face before being swallowed by his black mood. “What do you care? You’ve got your precious tapes, no one's going to see what I did to you, so what the hell does it matter? Maybe you should be thanking me instead of fucking attacking me.”_
> 
> _For the briefest of moments, a spark of anger flickered in Tom's eyes. “You forced yourself on me!” he retorted indignantly, but when he recognized the genuine look of misery reflecting from Booker’s dark eyes, compassion extinguished his outrage. “Okay,” he conceded softly, “I’ll let it go… for now. But I want you to know one thing. If you ever try something like that on me again, I'll beat the crap out of you with my bare hands, understood?”_
> 
> _Too tired and disillusioned to defend himself, Booker nodded his head, and without waiting to see Tom from his apartment, he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door closed._
> 
> _Tom started to leave, but before he had made it halfway across the room, he stopped. Turning slowly around, he stared thoughtfully at the closed bedroom door. He was on a quest for answers, and so far, all he had were more questions. It was obvious Booker was hiding something, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the nervous energy he used to thrive on when he had a case to solve. Tom Hanson the cop had re-emerged, and with him came a long-forgotten determination. For reasons he did not understand, Booker had turned his back on him, and he would be damned if he would let the sonofabitch get away with treating him like shit without an explanation._
> 
> _Therefore, against his better judgment, he threw caution to the wind and walked toward the bedroom door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35970237435/in/dateposted-public/)

When Booker arrived back at Tom’s apartment, he was surprised to find him still dressed in a pair of boxers, the only addition to his attire, a pale blue blanket draped over his shoulders. The soft woolen rug conveniently hid the scars on the young officer’s arms, but it somehow added to the helplessness of his already forlorn persona, and upon closer scrutiny, Booker noticed how incredibly tired his friend looked. The overhead light accentuated the black smudges under his eyes, and stress lines creased his forehead, marring his usually smooth complexion. He was a shadow of his former, vibrant self, and a shiver of guilt ran down the dark-haired officer’s spine. No matter how he tried to rationalize it to himself, he _had_ abandoned Tom in his hour of need. However, he also felt somewhat justified in doing so. But whether Tom would see it that way remained to be seen, and all he could do was try to explain his actions and hope for the best.

Taking a seat beside his friend on the sofa, he opened his mouth to speak, but Tom beat him to the punch. “Is he okay?”

Taken aback by the question, Booker scratched nervously at the back of his head before answering. “Outwardly, yeah, he is. He’s had some blood tests, so we’ll know more in a few days. Plus, the doctor wants him—”

“You had a blood test too,” Tom interrupted when he noticed the Band-Aid covering a wad of cotton in the crook of Booker’s arm. “Is that because you had unprotected sex with him?”

Booker’s face flushed red, and getting to his feet, he began to pace the floor. “Geez, Hanson,” he muttered, his fingers raking through his hair. “What is this? Twenty questions?”

Unconcerned by his friend’s pronounced state of embarrassment, Tom continued to probe. “So, are you going to tell me who he is?” 

Pausing mid-step, Booker turned around and focused his gaze on Tom, his brow knitting into a dark, angry scowl. “He’s a victim of abuse, just like you. Happy?”

Tom’s eyes lowered to the floor. “Why would that make me happy?” he mumbled, his fingernails anxiously scratching at the raised scabs on his arm, the unconscious movement revealing the level of his unease. “My life’s ruined. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Shame fluttered Booker’s heart, and taking a seat back on the sofa, he exhaled a weary sigh. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

When Tom made no effort to reply, the two men sat in uncomfortable silence for several long minutes. But the sound of fingernails scraping over skin began to grate on Booker’s nerves, and he laid a gentle hand on Tom’s arm, preventing the young officer from causing further harm to his already damaged flesh. “You’ve got to stop doing that, you’re hurting yourself.”

The tenderness of the touch sent a charge of electricity flowing through Tom’s body, and ashamed by his arousal, he jerked away, silently cursing his body’s betrayal. “What does it matter?” he snapped, all the while hoping his anger would mask the lustful heat flaming his cheeks. “A few cuts are _nothing_ compared to what I’ve been through.”

A sultry, passion-fueled radiance reflected from the very depths of Booker’s soul, and leaning forward, he placed his palm against his friend’s flushed cheek. His gaze locked on the sweet, kissable pout forming on Tom’s full lips, and he longed to savor the taste of the young officer’s intoxicating honeyed juices. But rather than acting on his amorous yearnings, he let his words express the immeasurable depth of the feelings resonating in his heart. “It matters because I love you.”

The luminous glow shining from Booker’s eyes ignited a fire in the pit of Tom’s stomach. A lot had changed since Dennis had first professed his love, and this time, the revelation had him swooning like an infatuated schoolgirl. His breath hitched in his throat, and rubbing a nervous hand over his mouth, a faltering rush of air exhaled from between his lips. “Do you _really?”_

A bolt of pure love exploded from within Booker’s heart, the surge of emotion releasing a flood of hormones into his system. “Of _course_ I do. Jesus, Tom, after everything we’ve been through, why won’t you believe it?”

Tom’s pulse skittered erratically. Although still confused by his growing feelings for the man sitting next to him, he _wanted_ it to be true, but there was one obstacle preventing him from fully accepting the heartfelt vow. “What about Jorge?” he queried softly. “Do you love him too?”

It was the question Booker knew he could no longer avoid answering, and flopping back against the couch cushions, he raked his fingers through his tousled hair. “It’s complicated, Tom.”

Disappointment extinguished the hopeful sparkle in Tom’s eyes. But he knew if he and Booker were to continue their friendship, he needed to push aside his disillusionment and confront the elephant in the room. He wanted answers; answers about the tapes, and answers about Jorge. Therefore, he drew in a deep, calming breath and channeling the confidence of the man he had once been, he faced his inner demons. “Explain it to me.”

**

“So, there it is,” Booker concluded quietly. “That’s how I got the tapes, and that’s how I met Jorge.”

Tom’s lower lip pushed into a thoughtful pout. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his gut that Booker had not revealed the whole truth, and he wondered if his friend had omitted certain pieces of information to protect himself. Immediately, his analytical skills kicked in, and he carefully began to deconstruct the story as told to him. According to the dark-haired officer, he had coerced Harold into finding out the Keymaster’s identity, and he had paid the man (Ingram Holland) a surprise visit. The real estate tycoon had promised him the tapes in return for his company. Apparently, he had led Booker to believe he was lonely, and in need of some companionship. However, once settled inside the secluded mansion, Booker soon realized the man was sexually abusing his young pool boy. It was then he had formed an emotional attachment to the young man, and when he had offered him comfort, their innocent friendship had manifested into a sexual relationship. Therefore, once he had fulfilled his contract with Holland, he had little choice but to offer Jorge refuge, and the rest (as was so often quoted) was history.

But for Tom, the story didn’t add up. He knew Booker too well—or at least he thought he did—and there was no way in hell the impulsive, cocksure officer would have stood idly by and allowed a sexual predator to abuse a teenage boy. He would have wrung the bastard’s neck there and then, not watched passively from the sidelines. So, it didn’t take him long to deduce his friend was spinning him a pack of lies, and the realization had him seething with resentment. If Booker really _did_ love him as much as he claimed he did, he would trust him enough to tell him the truth and not blatantly lie just to save face.

The irrefutable knowledge brought forth feelings of hurt and disappointment, the unsettling turbulence throwing his thoughts into disarray. He had seriously considered entering into a sexual relationship with Dennis, but now he wasn’t so sure. The one virtue he valued above all others was honesty; it was a trait his father had instilled in him from a very young age, and it was part of the reason he had become a police officer. Publilius Syrus’ quote: _He who has lost honor can lose nothing more_ was one of his favorites, and he held the sentiment close to his heart. Therefore, to know Booker had the capacity to distort the truth without batting an eye unnerved him, and he could not help but wonder if his first impression of the young officer had actually been correct. Perhaps he had been right all along; perhaps Booker really _was_ an untrustworthy sonofabitch.

But there was only one way to find out, and with Booker’s expectant gaze boring into him, he ran a shaky hand over his mouth before speaking his mind. “I don't believe you.”

Dennis’ eyes grew wide with surprise. “What?”

“I said, I _don't_ believe you,” Tom reiterated coldly. “I told you not to fuck with me, Booker, and here you are, spinning me some bullshit tale. If you don't trust me enough to open up to me, that’s fine, but you can get the hell out of my apartment because I can't deal with the idea of you deceiving me. Not now; not after what I've been through.”

It was then Booker realized he had made a monumental mistake in misjudging Tom’s ability to see through the bullshit. The young officer was like a human lie detector, he had a sixth sense, and he could sniff out a liar as effectively as a bloodhound latched onto a human scent. By protecting his ego, he had insulted the intelligence of the man he loved, and now he was paying the price. His friend was furious, and it was all because he refused to acknowledge the pain ripping him apart.

With his epiphany came memories of his abuse, the violent images once again clawing their way back under his stoic mask of indifference, infecting his mind with a vivid account of his suffering. Undulating waves of emotion swamped his being, dislodging his false shield of bravado, smashing it to pieces, leaving him defenseless and vulnerable. A torrent of pain welled up inside him, filling his throat with silent screams. He suddenly found himself drowning in the tide of an emotional tsunami, unable to think, speak, breathe. His grief bore down on him, compressing his lungs, suffocating him with the weight of its truth. No matter what lies he told, the facts would always haunt him. He was a whore, a worthless piece of meat who had prostituted himself in the name of love. But _true_ love was inherently free; it could not be bought, commanded or demanded by the actions of another. It was a magnificent force of nature, not a commodity, and his promiscuity had sullied the purity of his devotion. It was then that it hit him. He was not worthy of Tom’s love, not any more. He was an impostor and a cheat, and he deserved to live a lonely existence, trapped in the web of his deceit. Holland had stripped away more than just his dignity, he had destroyed his confidence, and he wondered if anyone could look past his emotional scars and love him for himself, despite the darkness tainting his soul.

Overcome with the distress of his reckless behavior, he staggered to his feet and stumbled blindly across the room, his eyes blurring with hot, salty tears. But before he reached the door, Tom’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Too emotionally exhausted to fight off the unwelcome intrusion into his personal grief, he collapsed to the floor, pulling Tom down with him.

“Shhh,” Tom crooned against the damp strands of hair plastered to Booker’s temple. 

Ashamed by his breakdown, Booker attempted to pull away, but Tom refused to release his hold. “Talk to me,” he commanded softly. “You helped me, now let me help you. Tell me what happened.”

More than anything, Booker longed to release the burden he carried within his heart, but he feared rejection once he revealed the horrific details of his abuse. After all, he hadn’t been overpowered like Tom, he had been a willing partner in the countless sexual encounters he had participated in, and that made him complicit in his own self-degradation. There was no one to blame but himself, and in all likelihood, Tom would never want to associate with him again.

After finally managing to break free from Tom's tight embrace, he wiped a hand over his tear-stained face. “I can’t,” he muttered, his eyes refusing to meet his friend’s worried gaze. “You’ll hate me.”

The pitiful rise in Booker’s voice echoed that of a small boy terrified of losing a classmate’s friendship, and an amused grin tilted Tom’s lips. “How ‘bout I pinky swear I won’t,” he teased softly, the little finger of his right hand extending in a symbolic gesture of solidarity.

The lame joke cleared some of the tension hanging heavily in the room, and Booker managed a watery smile. “You may regret that decision.”

Pulling the blue blanket back around his shoulders, Tom sat cross-legged on the floor, and leaning forward, he scrutinized Booker’s pale face. “Try me.”

And so began the most difficult conversation of Booker’s life.


	34. Just a Kiss Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **With endless reports circulating in the media, I thought I should address the Johnny Depp spousal abuse claims up front. I have received several emails from readers asking me my thoughts, and whether I will continue to write Tom/Dennis fanfics. This is what I told them.**
> 
> **Firstly, my stories are based on fictional characters played by actors. Tom is not Johnny, and therefore, I see no reason not to continue writing about two characters I love. That said, I am also not one to jump on the vilification bandwagon and crucify someone based solely on an allegation because at this stage that’s all it is, an allegation. I have been asked if I think he’s guilty, and my gut reaction is no, but of course, I could be proven wrong. While I write about abuse, I want it on record that I do not, in any way, shape or form, condone abuse of any kind. However, I will not form an opinion on what happened between Johnny and his wife based on what the mainstream media is telling me. Once the truth comes out, I will re-evaluate, and see how I feel, but until then, my stories will continue.**
> 
> **I understand many people feel very passionately about this, and I also understand I will lose readers because of my choice of pairing. But to be honest, it doesn’t bother me. I will continue to write these stories for as long as I enjoy doing so, and I hope a few of you will continue to read them.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**
> 
> **P.S. Side note for my dear reader, Ute. I know I promised not to do it, but I think poor Jorge’s heart is going to get broken. However, I promise to repair it as quickly as I can ;)**
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  _Previously: More than anything, Booker longed to release the burden he carried within his heart, but he feared rejection once he revealed the horrific details of his abuse. After all, he hadn’t been overpowered like Tom, he had been a willing partner in the countless sexual encounters he had participated in, and that made him complicit in his own self-degradation. There was no one to blame but himself, and in all likelihood, Tom would never want to associate with him again._
> 
> _After finally managing to break free from Tom's tight embrace, he wiped a hand over his tear-stained face. “I can’t,” he muttered, his eyes refusing to meet his friend’s worried gaze. “You’ll hate me.”_
> 
> _The pitiful rise in Booker’s voice echoed that of a small boy terrified of losing a classmate’s friendship, and an amused grin tilted Tom’s lips. “How ‘bout I pinky swear I won’t,” he teased softly, the little finger of his right hand extending in a symbolic gesture of solidarity._
> 
> _The lame joke cleared some of the tension hanging heavily in the room, and Booker managed a watery smile. “You may regret that decision.”_
> 
> _Pulling the blue blanket back around his shoulders, Tom sat cross-legged on the floor, and leaning forward, he scrutinized Booker’s pale face. “Try me.”_
> 
> _And so began the most difficult conversation of Booker’s life._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35799596092/in/dateposted-public/)

Long after Booker stopped talking, Tom continued to stare into his friend’s troubled eyes, his expression unreadable. The dark-haired officer held his breath, waiting for the reaction he knew would eventuate; a look of disgust or a shouted insult, aimed to hurt and humiliate. But when Tom’s quietly spoken words cut through the thick, heavy silence hanging over the room, he could barely believe his ears.

“You did that for _me?”_

Immediately, the warmth and gratitude radiating from Tom's voice dispelled all of Booker's fears, and relaxing his shoulders, he offered his friend a wan smile. “I had no choice,” he revealed softly, his gaze focusing on the ominous VCR tapes that lay among an assortment of discarded objects on the cluttered coffee table. “I knew how important it was for you to—”

A warm mouth consumed the rest of his words, the unexpected kiss tender and comforting. Surprise rendered him immobile, and it took him a moment to react. But when Tom’s moist tongue slipped between his lips, a loud moan rumbled in his throat, and he eagerly returned the kiss. Unfortunately, the contact was fleeting, and before he had time to revel in the sweetness of Tom’s juices, the young officer withdrew, a shy smile tilting his lips. “I seem to be making a habit of that.”

Booker grinned back. “It’s a habit I could get used to.”

Although Tom knew he could no longer deny his feelings, a little voice inside his head told him to be careful. There was an obvious connection between Booker and Jorge, but just how deep that connection went was anyone’s guess. The fact Dennis had taken the young man into his home had him questioning his friend’s motives. However, rather than drive himself crazy by imagining various scenarios between the two men, he decided to confront the issue head-on. “I know you said you were under Holland’s influence, but you enjoyed having sex with Jorge, didn’t you?”

It was more a statement than a question, and the implication had Booker seeing red. “If you say so,” he responded in a cold voice.

Realizing his mistake, Tom immediately backpedaled. “That’s not what I meant,” he replied quickly. “It’s just… he’s beautiful, and vulnerable, and—”

“Jesus, Tom!” Booker exclaimed, and scrambling to his feet, he started to stomp around the room. “Even after everything I told you, you still don’t get it! In my mind, I wasn’t saving Jorge, I was saving _you!_ It was my second chance at redemption! Every day I relive what happened in that basement, and every day I fucking hate myself for not being stronger, for not being _smarter!_ I could have done more, I _should_ have done more, but instead, I was outwitted by a bunch of frat boys! Do you have any idea how that feels?”

Tom stood up, a wry smile tilting his lips. “Yeah, I do. I was there too, remember? And I didn’t fight hard enough either, maybe if I had…” His voice trailed off, and an uncomfortable silence hung between them before he spoke again. “So, you never answered my original question. Do you love him?”

Weariness slumped Booker’s shoulders. “I thought I did, but now I know he was just a substitute for the man I _really_ love.”

The declaration should have had Tom’s heart singing for joy, but his intrinsic sense of right and wrong dampened his happiness and expelling a heavy sigh, he voiced his concerns. “He loves you, you know that, right? You can’t break his heart, Dennis, he’s been used and abused too many times. It’ll crush him if you turn your back on him now.”

“I know,” Booker replied quietly, a deep sadness shining from his dark eyes. “But I can’t keep stringing him along either. I want to be with _you,_ Tommy, not him, despite what you may think.”

Suddenly overcome with shyness, Tom’s cheeks flamed pink, and he lowered his gaze seductively. “I want to be with you too,” he muttered awkwardly.

Not wanting to waste time talking when he could be exploring the smooth, sweet-scented flesh of the man he adored, Booker stepped forward, and tilting Tom’s face upward, he tenderly kissed his cheek. The heat of the young officer’s blush radiated against his lips, and his breath melted into a moan. “Oh, baby,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Embarrassed by the pet name, Tom ducked his head, a coquettish smile gracing his lips. Amused by the reaction, a spark of light returned to the dark-haired officer’s eyes, instantly transforming him into the Booker of old, and throwing back his head, he laughed loudly. “Geez, Hanson, you really are adorable.”

Tom’s smile froze, and reaching out a hand, he pulled down the collar of Booker’s jacket, revealing a ring of bluish-red bruises around his friend’s throat. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” he swore softly. “He _choked_ you?”

The dark shadow of Booker’s abuse immediately resurfaced, dousing the radiant glow from his eyes. Although he had eventually confessed the truth to Tom about Holland, he had played down the extent of the physical abuse, preferring to gloss over the details rather than admit the full extent of his exploitation. But now there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Each rainbow colored contusion told a story of abuse, every finger shaped imprint screamed in discord of his torture. His clothing concealed dozens of bite marks, the vicious impressions adorning his chest, stomach, and thighs. He was a human canvas, a madman’s sadistically crafted artwork publicly laid bare for all to witness, and with the visual truth surely came his damnation. Tom would inevitably walk away, too disgusted to want to continue their budding relationship, and it would have all been for nothing. What started out as a fight for justice had quickly escalated into a battle zone, the aftermath leaving two victims to sift through the detritus of their ruined lives; alone, unloved, and bearing the scars of an unwinnable war. It was, in the simplest sense, a tragedy.

Confident he had lost Tom forever, Booker felt a burning need to escape. “I should go,” he mumbled, his eyes avoiding his friend’s horrified gaze.

But before he could take a step, Tom was beside him, his fingers tugging at the collar of the worn leather, once again revealing the dark ring of bruising. Booker attempted to hide his shame by shrugging up his shoulders, but Tom was persistent, and yanking down the zipper, he pushed open the jacket. Warm breath tickled Booker’s skin, the whispery tendrils igniting his arousal, and closing his eyes, he inhaled the scent of Tom's shampoo. 

Tom’s mouth did not touch Booker's flesh at first; instead, the dark-haired officer felt the moist tip of his lover’s tongue tenderly caressing the bruises circling his neck. Eventually, soft lips kissed at his damaged skin, the erotic sensation bringing goosebumps to the surface. But the thrill of a hot mouth exploring his burning flesh was only part of his arousal. The unexpected display of affection signaled Tom's acceptance, the validation effectively smothering all his fears and doubts. His dream had become a reality, he was in a relationship with Tom Hanson, and he knew in his heart that the love they shared would help to repair both their damaged souls.

“Stay,” Tom murmured, his tongue gently massaging over Booker’s contused flesh. “I want to get to know you better.”

There was no mistaking the sexual undertone cleverly hidden beneath the innocence of Tom’s words, and the message sent a rush of blood to Booker’s cock, thickening his shaft. But life was never that simple, and nuzzling into the crook of Tom’s neck, he lovingly nipped and sucked at the smooth skin. “God, Tommy,” he moaned, his hands grasping at his lover’s firm buttocks. “I want to… but I can’t.”

Tom’s body stiffened, and lifting his head, he took a step backward, his dark eyes flashing with undisguised jealousy. “Because of _him?”_

Not wanting to lie, Booker’s lips twitched into an awkward smile. “Well, yeah,” he admitted softly. “I can’t leave him alone all night, and anyway, _you_ were the one who told me to let him down gently. I need to speak to him, to explain my feelings for you, and then I’ll take him to his mom’s tomorrow, and we can be together. Okay?”

Unimpressed by the answer, Tom’s mouth turned down in a sulky pout. But deep down, he knew he needed to give Booker some space, and heaving a heavy, over-dramatic sigh, he gave his assent. “Okay. But just so you know, _I_ don’t want to be alone either.”

Not about to let himself fall into the trap of emotional blackmail, Booker made a suggestion. “Why don’t you invite Doug over?”

Tom chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. His relationship with Doug needed some TLC, and a boys’ night in seemed the best way to get their friendship back on track. Now he and Booker had resolved their differences, he felt stronger and better equipped to deal with company. Although not ready to fully divulge his secret, he was prepared to let Doug back into his life, and that in itself was a breakthrough in his recovery. It was only a small step forward, but a step nonetheless, and a turning point in his quest to heal the emotional and physical scars that had crippled him since his assault. 

“Yeah, maybe I will,” he replied quietly, and stepping forward, he gave Booker a hug. “Thanks.”

Surprised by the expression of gratitude, Booker wrapped his arms around Tom’s slender frame and returned the embrace. “For what?” he murmured against the young officer’s ear.

Tom’s voice lowered to a whisper. “For coming back.”

Emotion swelled Booker’s throat. “Baby, I never left.”

**

Although not emotionally prepared, Booker knew he needed to deal with the Jorge situation posthaste or risk making matters a whole lot worse. Therefore, instead of going for a jog on the beach as he had initially planned, he drove straight home. The young Latino greeted him with a smile, but the light in his eyes faded when he noticed the officer’s dour expression. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk,” Booker replied quietly.

Jorge’s body stiffened, and returning his gaze to the television, he stared moodily at the screen. “It’s about _him,_ isn’t it?”

With a heavy sigh, Booker perched on the edge of the coffee table, blocking his friend’s view. “Please, Jorge, just hear me out,” he requested softly.

“Why?” the younger man muttered. “I already know what you’re gonna say. You’re in love with _him,_ aren’t you? And that means you’re gonna chuck me out on the street so the two of you can be together.”

Booker had the grace to look uncomfortable, and rubbing his hands over his face, he gathered his thoughts before answering. “I’m not kicking you out. It was always the plan for you to go and stay with your mom, the two of you need time to get to know each other again after spending so much time apart.”

Although true, Jorge refused to acknowledge the fact, and instead, he threw Booker a furious look, his hands balling into tight fists as he spat out his words. “You lied to me, you sonofabitch! You made me believe we would be together, and now, after _one_ fucking day, you tell me you’re in love with a fucking _WHORE!”_

A sickening _crack_ of bone hitting bone splintered the still air, the sound resembling a pistol shot. The force of Booker’s punch whipped Jorge’s head to the side, expelling a rush of air from his lips. Afraid he was about to face a full-blown assault, he fell over the arm of the chair, his body landing on the floor in a crumpled heap. Pain flared in his shoulder, but he ignored it and pushing himself to his hands and knees, he scuttled into a corner and pulling his knees to his chest, he curled into a small, protective ball.

Shocked by his violent behavior, Booker jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry!” he cried, and leaping over the back of the sofa, he dropped to his knees, his hand hovering uselessly above the cowering figure of his friend before settling on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean it, baby, I promise, I didn’t mean it.”

Jorge’s body quivered beneath Booker’s touch, and lifting his head, he gazed up at the man he adored, his dark eyes filled with hurt. “Why don’t you love me?”

Sitting back on his heels, Booker’s fingers raked through his dark hair as he struggled to articulate his feelings. “I _do_ love you… it’s just, I don’t love you in the same way I love Tom.” When Jorge remained silent, he continued. “Look, I’m sorry I hit you, but calling the man I love a whore… I dunno, it reminded me of Holland, and I guess I overreacted.”

A memory clouded Jorge’s eyes. “Holland used to call me that too,” he whispered, his voice shaking with emotion, “and I hated it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about Tom, I s’pose I was just jealous. Do you forgive me?”

Relief relaxed the tension in Booker’s muscles and helping Jorge to his feet, he hugged him tight. “Of course I forgive you,” he murmured softly. “But do _you_ forgive _me?”_

Jorge nodded, his body pressing against Booker’s muscular frame. He would forgive, but he wouldn’t forget, and he would do everything in his power to win Booker over, so they could be together forever... and Tom could go to hell.

**

**That evening**

Penhall stood in the doorway wearing his trademark lopsided grin, a six-pack of beer in one hand, a pizza box in the other, and on top of the slightly squashed cardboard container, a video of the previous night’s hockey game. While he had taken the hint and given Tom some space, he missed his friend terribly, and he had jumped at the invitation to spend some time together. He hoped an evening watching sport would alleviate some of the tension that had built up over the last few weeks. Although not always tactful, he was astute enough to know _something_ had happened at the Pi Tau fraternity, but despite the urge to play cop and get to the bottom of the mystery, he had made a vow to himself not to pry. It was up to Fuller to decide Tom’s fate, not him, and if his friend wanted to keep him in the dark, then all he could do was be there for him in a supportive role when their captain’s patience finally ran out.

“How’s it hangin’, Hanson,” he greeted playfully.

Penhall's infectious smile had the desired effect, and Tom grinned back. “To the left,” he quipped. “You?”

“Long, loose and full of juice,” Penhall laughed.

With the ice now broken, Tom grabbed the video from the top of the pizza box before it slipped off and stepped back from the door. “You can come in if you promise to _never_ say that again.”

Grinning broadly, Doug walked in and headed straight for the refrigerator. Tom closed the door, and tossing the video on the coffee table, he followed his friend into the kitchen. When Doug handed him a beer, they clinked bottles and drank in silent celebration. It had been a rough couple of weeks, but they were both prepared to put any bad feelings behind them and move forward. The McQuaids were back. _HEH!_

“Pizza’s a little cold,” Penhall remarked through a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese.

“No problem,” Tom replied. “I’ll warm it in the oven. How ‘bout you set up the VCR.”

Doug grabbed another slice out of the box and headed into the living room. After clearing a space for the pizza on the cluttered coffee table, he picked up the videotape and walked over to the entertainment unit. He continued to munch on the cold piece of pizza (blissfully unaware of the trail of crumbs he was leaving on the floor), and pushing the tape into the VCR’s slot, he switched on the television and walked back to the sofa. Making himself comfortable against the cushions, he picked up the remote and pressed play, his intention to fast forward to the start of the game. But when Tom’s terrified face filled the small screen, he sat forward in his seat, his brow creasing in bewilderment. “What the—”

 _“DENNIS, DON’T!”_ Tom’s image screamed. _“Stop, Dennis! Oh, God! Please stop! Don’t! Don’t! DON’T!”_

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Penhall yelled, and jumping to his feet, he stood staring at the television, the remote hanging forgotten in his hand. From behind him came the sound of shattering glass, and turning around, he stared at Tom with wide, frightened eyes. “Hanson, what the hell is—”

“TURN IT OFF!” Tom shrieked hysterically. “TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! TURN IT _OFF!”_

Stunned, Penhall remained where he was. The sound of cheering echoed throughout the apartment, and turning back toward the TV, he choked back a distressed cry when the camera panned down to an image of Booker enthusiastically sucking Tom’s cock. “Oh, my fucking—”

 _“AAARGH!”_ Tom screamed, and ignoring the shards of glass surrounding his bare feet, he tore across the room and kicked his foot through the television screen. Electrical sparks spat and fizzed from the tube, the bright flash temporarily blurring Doug’s vision. The broken glass of the CRT’s screen sliced through the soft flesh of Tom’s sole, leaving jagged, bloody wounds, but he barely flinched. His mental anguish far exceeded any physical pain. In a twist of fate, his friend had picked up the wrong tape, and after witnessing the pornographic vision, Tom knew no amount of crude, masculine banter could ever return their relationship to where it had once been. Once again, his world had imploded, fragmenting his sanity, and with a primordial yell, he blindly began to smash anything he could get his hands on. CDs flew across the room, knick-knacks smashed against walls; nothing remained impervious to his wrath, and within seconds, his belongings lay strewn across the apartment, the causal effect of a mind gone mad. 

Shocked into action, Penhall lunged at his friend, wrestling him to the floor. “CALM DOWN!” he yelled.

“DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH ME!” Tom screamed, his face turning purple with a mixture of panic and rage. His body writhed, violently twisting and jerking as he tried to break free from Penhall’s hold. But his attempt was futile, and eventually, his body went limp, and he collapsed against his friend’s chest. “It w-wasn’t his f-fault,” he sobbed, his tears soaking through Doug’s cotton shirt. “Th-they made h-him do it! They m- _made_ him!”

But the heart-rending confession had little impact on Doug. As he gently consoled his friend, he had one thought on his mind; find Booker and make him pay for what he had done to his beloved Tom.


	35. Broken, Beaten and Scarred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Doug grabbed another slice out of the box and headed into the living room. After clearing a space for the pizza on the cluttered coffee table, he picked up the videotape and walked over to the entertainment unit. He continued to munch on the cold piece of pizza (blissfully unaware of the trail of crumbs he was leaving on the floor), and pushing the tape into the VCR’s slot, he switched on the television and walked back to the sofa. Making himself comfortable against the cushions, he picked up the remote and pressed play, his intention to fast forward to the start of the game. But when Tom’s terrified face filled the small screen, he sat forward in his seat, his brow creasing in bewilderment. “What the—”_
> 
> _“DENNIS, DON’T!” Tom’s image screamed. “Stop, Dennis! Oh, God! Please stop! Don’t! Don’t! DON’T!”_
> 
> _“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Penhall yelled, and jumping to his feet, he stood staring at the television, the remote hanging forgotten in his hand. From behind him came the sound of shattering glass, and turning around, he stared at Tom with wide, frightened eyes. “Hanson, what the hell is—”_
> 
> _“TURN IT OFF!” Tom shrieked hysterically. “TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF!”_
> 
> _Stunned, Penhall remained where he was. The sound of cheering echoed throughout the apartment, and turning back toward the TV, he choked back a distressed cry when the camera panned down to an image of Booker enthusiastically sucking Tom’s cock. “Oh, my fucking—”_
> 
> _“AAARGH!” Tom screamed, and ignoring the shards of glass surrounding his bare feet, he tore across the room and kicked his foot through the television screen. Electrical sparks spat and fizzed from the tube, the bright flash temporarily blurring Doug’s vision. The broken glass of the CRT’s screen sliced through the soft flesh of Tom’s sole, leaving jagged, bloody wounds, but he barely flinched. His mental anguish far exceeded any physical pain. In a twist of fate, his friend had picked up the wrong tape, and after witnessing the pornographic vision, Tom knew no amount of crude, masculine banter could ever return their relationship to where it had once been. Once again, his world had imploded, fragmenting his sanity, and with a primordial yell, he blindly began to smash anything he could get his hands on. CDs flew across the room, knick-knacks smashed against walls; nothing remained impervious to his wrath, and within seconds, his belongings lay strewn across the apartment, the causal effect of a mind gone mad._
> 
> _Shocked into action, Penhall lunged at his friend, wrestling him to the floor. “CALM DOWN!” he yelled._
> 
> _“DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH ME!” Tom screamed, his face turning purple with a mixture of panic and rage. His body writhed, violently twisting and jerking as he tried to break free from Penhall’s hold. But his attempt was futile, and eventually, his body went limp, and he collapsed against his friend’s chest. “It w-wasn’t his f-fault,” he sobbed, his tears soaking through Doug’s cotton shirt. “Th-they made h-him do it! They m-made him!”_
> 
> _But the heart-rending confession had little impact on Doug. As he gently consoled his friend, he had one thought on his mind; find Booker and make him pay for what he had done to his beloved Tom._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35581301120/in/dateposted-public/)

Tom sat on the sofa, his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes staring listlessly into space. In his hands, a forgotten cup of coffee trembled violently, the tepid liquid spilling over his fingers. He hadn’t uttered a single word since his impassioned attempt to justify Booker’s assault, and as the minutes ticked by, his silence only added to Doug’s concerns. Although not an expert, as a cop, Penhall understood about trauma, and fearing his friend was going into shock, he made the decision to call 911. With an ambulance on its way, he dialed a second number, and after a brief conversation, he hung up. Turning his attention back to Tom, he wondered how to proceed. While he wanted to offer comfort, he honestly did not know what to say. How did you console the victim of a sexual assault when the perpetrator was a trusted colleague you worked side by side with day in day out? He was out of his depth and terrified of making matters worse. But he knew he needed to do something other than making a cup of coffee, and approaching the sofa, he squatted down and laid a hand on his friend’s knee. “How ya doin’, buddy?”

If Tom heard, he made no acknowledgment. His eyes remained dull, his expression vacant. Somewhere, in the midst of the chaos that was the harshness of his reality, he had managed to build a protective wall, a refuge in his mind where he was no longer a victim, no longer a weak, pathetic excuse for a man. He was Tom Hanson the cop, the loving son, the loyal friend, a man free from emotional pain. It was the comforting existence he craved, and surrendering his peripheral senses, he withdrew inside his fantasy. Immediately, his father’s laugh echoed inside his head, and closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to travel back in time. He was a small boy, sitting on his dad’s knee, sheltered from harm by the muscular arms holding him in a loving embrace. The scent of Old Spice filled the air, and he inhaled deeply, the memory now more powerful than the reality of the destruction surrounding him. Locked inside his imagination, a smile touched his lips, and he clung to another memory. He was twelve-years-old and playing catch with his dad in the yard of their home. At this precise moment in time he still had his whole life ahead of him; dreams of college, dreams of following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a cop. There was no stress, just a carefree existence, an endless world of possibilities stretching out before him. Love was all around him; he was safe, happy, and oblivious to the evil that lurked behind the masks of seemingly human faces. He was still an innocent, and impervious to the cruelties of the world.

A single tear leaked from the corner of his eye, the translucent droplet sliding slowly down his pale cheek. But there was no sadness, it was a tear of pure contentment, and he continued to smile, his mind happily trapped inside the visions from his past. Life was once again peaceful, and rather than face the cold reality of his abuse, he planned to stay hidden within the walls of his blissful nirvana forever, free from the pain of his existence.

Shocked by the tranquil expression on Tom's face, Penhall started to panic. He feared his friend was slipping into a state of catatonia, and grabbing him by the shoulders, he shook him violently. “Hey, Tommy! Open your eyes! Look at me, Tommy! Look at me!”

But Tom remained oblivious to the present, and Doug’s frantic pleas floated unheard through the apartment, the love and concern absorbed into the atmosphere along with the futility of the words. His mind had burrowed deeper into his memories, the actuality of his being now secondary to the hallucinations of his past. Twenty-three-year-old Tom was now a figment of his imagination, and twelve-year-old Tom was the living, breathing, reality.

The hurried sound of footsteps caught Doug’s attention, and rising to his feet, he stared expectantly at the open door. When Judy Hoffs’ appeared, her pretty face etched with worry, he rushed forward and gathered her into his arms. “Thank God you’re here.”

Judy’s distraught eyes filled with tears. “I just can’t believe it,” she sobbed against Doug’s chest. “I feel like I’m stuck in a nightmare.”

Doug’s expression hardened, and gently disengaging himself from Judy’s hold, he held her at arm’s-length. “It’s not a nightmare for Booker, it’s his fucking dream come true. I bet he’s been planning this since he first laid eyes on Tom.”

Shock widened Judy’s eyes. “You can’t be serious! You think Booker _willingly_ sexually assaulted Tom because he’s in _love_ with him? C’mon, Penhall, Booker may be a lot of things, but he’s not a rapist. Maybe this has something to do with that fraternity. I mean, Fuller’s been trying to figure out what went on ever since—”

“I know what I saw,” Penhall snapped, his gaze focusing back on Tom. “Hanson was terrified, and Booker… Booker looked like he was having the time of his life. He was getting off on it, Jude, that bastard was assaulting Tom, and he was getting off on it.”

Hot bile rose in Judy’s throat, but she quickly pulled herself together and rather than debating whether or not Booker really _was_ a lascivious sonofabitch, she walked over to the sofa. Without crowding Tom, she sat down, her hand trembling slightly as she brushed a stray strand of hair from her friend’s eyes. “Hey, Hanson,” she whispered, her fingers lightly toying with Tom’s soft tresses. “You’re going to be fine. We’re all here for you.”

“I think he’s in shock,” Penhall advised quietly. “I’ve called the paramedics, but I need you to stay with him and make sure he’s okay.”

Judy's hand stilled, and she gazed up at Penhall, her expression one of surprise. “Why? Where are you going?”

A dangerous gleam flashed in Penhall’s eyes, and reaching down, he ejected the video from the VCR. “I’m gonna pay Booker a visit,” he growled, the offending tape held firmly in his meaty hand.

When the meaning behind Doug’s words became apparent, Judy jumped to her feet. “Penhall, wait! Don’t do anything—”

But Doug was already gone, leaving the remainder of her warning hanging suspended in the air, the unspoken words a chilling portent into the violence that was about to rip several friendships apart.

**

The seventies sitcom with its annoyingly fake laugh track grated heavily on Booker’s nerves, and picking up the remote control, he changed channels. He stared blankly at the television, his brain barely registering the devastating news coverage of the Loma Prieta earthquake filling the small screen. Swamped by feelings of guilt and regret, his fingers unconsciously stroked the ring of bruises around his throat, the necklace of abuse a painful reminder of what he had sacrificed for the man he loved. But his remorse had nothing to do with Tom. After experiencing prolonged maltreatment at the hands of Ingram Holland, he better understood the depths of his attachment to the young officer. To lay down his life for love was no longer just a silly, romantic notion; he had willingly endured indescribable pain and suffering to protect Tom, which proved he really _was_ prepared to die for him. However, his noble sacrifice had come at a price, resulting in collateral damage. Jorge was the innocent bystander, a civilian casualty caught in the crossfire of a cruel game of outwit, outlast, outplay. While his intentions were pure, Booker realized he had inadvertently misled his young friend into believing they had a future together, and he was now dealing with the fallout. After their fight, Jorge had taken himself off to bed, the wounded look in his eyes adding to Booker’s torment. The officer felt like a complete asshole, but he knew in his heart honesty was the best policy. Jorge was hurting now, but once he was safely ensconced in his family’s loving arms, he would gain some perspective, and realize there was more to life than just sex. Through love and nurture, he would find the inner strength to restore his lost identity, giving him the confidence to break free from the shackles of his abuse. It would take time, but Booker was confident he would one day, accomplish his dreams.

The young officer’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud banging, the sudden disturbance causing his heart to thump erratically in his chest. Certain it was Tom, he bounded to his feet and sprinting across the room, he yanked open the door. “Tom—”

A fist came out of nowhere, the bare knuckles connecting with the young officer’s chin. The force of the blow sent his head whipping to the right, the sudden movement wrenching his neck muscles. Pain flared in his jaw, and staggering backward, he struggled to remain upright. But a second punch to the face knocked him off his feet, and with a grunt, he hit the floor, his head reeling. Confusion addled his brain, and he shielded himself as best he could from the savage blows raining down on his head and torso. The weight of his assailant’s body bearing down on his legs rendered him immobile, and all he could do was cross his arms over his face, giving him some measure of protection. However, the inadequacy of the action left his upper body exposed, allowing his assailant free access to batter him with such savage force, he could hear his ribs cracking. “STOP!” he cried, his body writhing in pain. “PLEASE STOP!”

“WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I?” Penhall yelled, his fists pummeling Booker’s defenseless body. “YOU DIDN’T STOP WHEN TOM BEGGED YOU TO; YOU JUST KEPT ON ASSAULTING HIM!”

Recognizing Penhall’s voice, Booker lowered his arms and desperately tried to reason with his friend. “I DIDN’T!” he screamed, tears of pain streaming from his panicked eyes. “OH GOD, DOUG, YOU’VE GOTTA BELIEVE ME! I DIDN’T WANNA HURT HIM… I WAS _TRYING_ TO PROTECT HIM!”

The relentless reign of terror abruptly ceased, and sitting back on his heels, Penhall glared down at Booker with hate-filled eyes. “You were _protecting_ him?” he spat through snarling lips. “You sick, twisted, motherfucker. You weren’t _protecting_ him; you were orally _raping_ him!”

Booker’s head snapped rapidly from side to side, his wild eyes pleading with Penhall to believe him. “No! No! No! It’s not what you think! There was a gun, and they had it pointed at Tom’s head! If I hadn’t done what they asked, they would have shot him!”

Unconvinced by the lame explanation, Penhall drew back his fist. “Bullshit! You’re a fucking liar and a rapist, and I’m gonna—”

Pain exploded in the back of the officer’s head, and without finishing his sentence, he pitched forward and collapsed on top of Booker, a soft moan escaping from between his lips.

Startled by the dramatic turn of events, Booker lay still for several seconds, his breath heaving painfully in his chest. But the weight of Penhall’s body crushing his damaged ribs soon became unbearable, and groaning in pain, he shoved at the larger officer’s shoulders until he rolled onto the floor. It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but he suddenly became aware of Jorge standing at his feet, the base of a table lamp clenched tightly in his right hand. “Oh God,” he moaned, pain flaring in his damaged ribs. “What did you do?”

Jorge grinned maniacally. “I hit him. Nobody hurts my Dennis.”

Pushing himself to a sitting position, Booker attempted to stabilize his ribs by wrapping a protective arm around his chest. “Shit,” he muttered, his gaze focusing on Penhall, and though wary of provoking another attack, he leaned forward and poked the semi-conscious officer in the side. “Doug, are you okay?”

Penhall’s eyes remained closed. _“Fuuuck,”_ he groaned by way of answer. “What happened?”

After placing the lamp back on the table, Jorge crouched down beside the injured officer. “Open your eyes,” he instructed.

Still feeling the effects of the unexpected attack, Penhall struggled to comply. He forced his eyelids open, squinting against the harshness of the overhead light until his vision cleared. But when his gaze settled on a naked man squatting before him, his eyes widened, and his mouth gaped open in surprise. “Who the hell are you?”

Ignoring the question, Jorge held up his hand. “How many fingers?”

For some inexplicable reason, the theme song from _The Twilight Zone_ started playing inside Penhall’s head, and his confusion intensified. “Huh?”

“Fingers,” Jorge repeated, his hand gesturing erratically in front of the officer's bewildered face. “How many?”

Waves of nausea rolled in Penhall’s stomach, and sitting up, he pushed the offending hand away. “Three,” he muttered.

Satisfied with the answer, Jorge turned his attention to Booker, his expression softening when he witnessed the pain etched on his friend’s face. “Are you okay?”

Booker struggled slowly to his feet, the pain radiating throughout his body making it difficult for him to stand up straight. “I will be,” he growled, his arms wrapping protectively around his torso. “Once I get some answers.”

“Ditto,” Penhall mumbled, his eyes glaring angrily up at Booker. “So why don’t you begin by telling me _exactly_ what happened to you and Tom.”

The moment of truth had arrived, and realizing he could no longer protect Tom’s dignity, Booker nodded his head. “Okay,” he agreed softly. “But you’ve gotta promise to stay calm.”

With a grunt, Penhall hauled himself to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for several moments, his fingers gently probing the golf ball sized lump on the back of his head. Once satisfied there was no permanent damage, he gave his assent. “Deal.”

Motioning toward a chair, Booker lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. Jorge sat beside him, ready to spring into action at any sign of trouble. Although naked, the Latino felt no embarrassment. He was there to protect Dennis, and he would not leave his side until the loud, rude man had gone. After all, by validating his presence, he stood a better chance of winning Booker over, and there was no better way than showing his unwavering loyalty. Come hell or high water, he would prove he was worthy of the dark-haired officer’s love, and in time, Tom Hanson would become nothing more than a distant memory.

Penhall glared warily at Jorge before taking a seat. He had no idea who the young man was, but he guessed he was one of Booker's boyfriends. Having a naked man sitting in front of him was rather disconcerting, so he focused his attention on Booker. “Okay, I’m ready,” he muttered. “Let's hear what you have to say.”

A shiver of regret ran down the length of Booker’s spine, the unexpected movement vibrating through his cracked ribs. His breath caught in his throat, and closing his eyes, he struggled to fight through the pain. 

“Dennis?” Jorge queried softly, his hand resting lightly on his friend’s shoulder.

The memory of Tom suffering through the same injury popped into Booker’s mind, and drawing strength from the experience, he opened his eyes and smiled through his pain. “I’m all right,” he assured the younger man before addressing Penhall. “You’re gonna hear things you’re not gonna wanna hear. Are you prepared for that?”

Unease prickled Penhall’s skin, but his expression remained unchanged. “How ‘bout you quit stalling and tell me the truth.”

And so began the second most difficult conversation of Booker’s life.


	36. The Ripple Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Pushing himself to a sitting position, Booker attempted to stabilize his ribs by wrapping a protective arm around his chest. “Shit,” he muttered, his gaze focusing on Penhall, and though wary of provoking another attack, he leaned forward and poked the semi-conscious officer in the side. “Doug, are you okay?”_
> 
> _Penhall’s eyes remained closed. “Fuuuck,” he groaned by way of answer. “What happened?”_
> 
> _After placing the lamp back on the table, Jorge crouched down beside the injured officer. “Open your eyes,” he instructed._
> 
> _Still feeling the effects of the unexpected attack, Penhall struggled to comply. He forced his eyelids open, squinting against the harshness of the overhead light until his vision cleared. But when his gaze settled on a naked man squatting before him, his eyes widened, and his mouth gaped open in surprise. “Who the hell are you?”_
> 
> _Ignoring the question, Jorge held up his hand. “How many fingers?”_
> 
> _For some inexplicable reason, the theme song from The Twilight Zone started playing inside Penhall’s head, and his confusion intensified. “Huh?”_
> 
> _“Fingers,” Jorge repeated, his hand gesturing erratically in front of Booker’s bewildered face. “How many?”_
> 
> _Waves of nausea rolled in Penhall’s stomach, and sitting up, he pushed the offending hand away. “Three,” he muttered._
> 
> _Satisfied with the answer, Jorge turned his attention to Booker, his expression softening when he witnessed the pain etched on his friend’s face. “Are you okay?”_
> 
> _Booker struggled slowly to his feet, the pain radiating throughout his body making it difficult for him to stand up straight. “I will be,” he growled, his arms wrapping protectively around his torso. “Once I get some answers.”_
> 
> _“Ditto,” Penhall mumbled, his eyes glaring angrily up at Booker. “So why don’t you begin by telling me exactly what happened to you and Tom.”_
> 
> _The moment of truth had arrived, and realizing he could no longer protect Tom’s dignity, Booker nodded his head. “Okay,” he agreed softly. “But you’ve gotta promise to stay calm.”_
> 
> _With a grunt, Penhall hauled himself to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for several moments, his fingers gently probing the golf ball sized lump on the back of his head. Once satisfied there was no permanent damage, he gave his assent. “Deal.”_
> 
> _Motioning toward a chair, Booker lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. Jorge sat beside him, ready to spring into action at any sign of trouble. Although naked, the Latino felt no embarrassment. He was there to protect Dennis, and he would not leave his side until the loud, rude man had gone. After all, by validating his presence, he stood a better chance of winning Booker over, and there was no better way than showing his unwavering loyalty. Come hell or high water, he would prove he was worthy of the dark-haired officer’s love, and in time, Tom Hanson would become nothing more than a distant memory._
> 
> _Penhall glared warily at Jorge before taking a seat. He had no idea who the young man was, but he guessed he was one of Booker's boyfriends. Having a naked man sitting in front of him was rather disconcerting, so he focused his attention on Booker. “Okay, I’m ready,” he muttered. “Let's hear what you have to say.”_
> 
> _A shiver of regret ran down the length of Booker’s spine, the unexpected movement vibrating through his cracked ribs. His breath caught in his throat, and closing his eyes, he struggled to fight through the pain._
> 
> _“Dennis?” Jorge queried softly, his hand resting lightly on his friend’s shoulder._
> 
> _The memory of Tom suffering through the same injury popped into Booker’s mind, and drawing strength from the experience, he opened his eyes and smiled through his pain. “I’m all right,” he assured the younger man before addressing Penhall. “You’re gonna hear things you’re not gonna wanna hear. Are you prepared for that?”_
> 
> _Unease prickled Penhall’s skin, but his expression remained unchanged. “How ‘bout you quit stalling and tell me the truth.”_
> 
> _And so began the second most difficult conversation of Booker’s life._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35581324010/in/dateposted-public/)

Silent and motionless, Harry Ioki waited impatiently for his captain to speak. Called back early from his scheduled two days of R&R, he wondered what was so important it couldn’t wait until the morning. With Tom suspended from duty, and—to the best of his knowledge—Booker still missing, he understood they were short staffed, and so there were no feelings of animosity at losing a few precious hours of relaxation time. But he wished his superior would quit shuffling his paperwork and get to the point. After all, if there was a new case to investigate, time was of the essence.

Pushing the pile of papers to one side, Fuller lifted his head and spoke in a flat, affectless voice. “Hanson, Penhall, and Booker are all in the hospital. Hoffs is there as support.”

Harry’s eyes blinked rapidly for several seconds as he digested the unexpected news. “What happened?” he eventually asked.

With a weary sigh, Fuller motioned for the young officer to take a seat. The burden of regret weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he suddenly looked every one of his forty-five years. By not giving Tom his undivided attention, and gently (but persuasively) pushing him to reveal the reason behind his obvious distress, he had let down a trusted colleague and friend. At the very least, he should have insisted Hanson saw the departmental psychologist. But he had misread the signs by underestimating the severity of Tom’s mood swings and erratic behavior. It was a painful lesson learned, and he hoped his foolhardiness would not have any damaging effect on the younger man’s career. Hanson was an outstanding cop, but Fuller had witnessed many an officer's downfall from the stress of personal tragedy, and none had suffered such a torturous experience as rape. It would take an exceptional man to rise above the gossip and humiliation, and continue with his life, but he hoped Tom was that man. To end a career at such a young age would be a tragedy, and the L.A.P.D. would not only lose a fine young officer, but the Jump Street team would lose a much-loved friend.

“Coach?” Harry pushed softly, Fuller's silence fueling his innermost fears.

The dark eyes staring back at Ioki reflected a level of grief rarely seen on the older man’s face, but as a superior officer, Fuller knew how to contain his emotions, and clearing his throat, he recited the facts in a straightforward manner. When he finished speaking, Harry remained silent for several moments before asking the obvious question. “Are they okay?”

Tension throbbed behind Fuller's bloodshot eyes, and using his thumb and forefinger, he applied pressure where the pain collected along the bridge of his nose. “Apart from a bruised ego, Booker’s got several fractured ribs. Penhall will have a headache for a few days, but there’s no sign of a concussion. They're to report back here with Hoffs in a couple of hours.”

“And Hanson?” Harry whispered, not sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

The question brought a flash of pain to Fuller’s eyes. “He was committed to the psych ward under a seventy-two-hour observation order.”

“Shit,” Harry muttered. Even though he had witnessed Tom’s gradual withdrawal from his friends and colleagues, the situation seemed eerily surreal. Hanson was one of the most grounded people he knew, and he could not picture him lying on a bed in a psych ward; lost, broken, unaware of his surroundings. But as an image slowly formed in his mind, he suddenly remembered the time Tom was drugged and shipped off to a psychiatric hospital while investigating allegations of mistreatment in an alcohol and drug rehabilitation program, and the chilling memory raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Once again, the young officer was vulnerable and alone, but this time, he hadn't been heavily medicated by an unscrupulous doctor, this time, he really was mentally unstable. It was a sobering thought, and he wondered whether or not there would be a happy outcome, or if Hanson was now doomed to a lifetime of depression and anxiety.

With the need to do something proactive growing steadily stronger, Harry stood up. “What can I do? Should I start an investigation into the Pi Taus?” 

Fuller pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his feet. “Not yet. Penhall has the tape, and as much as I don’t want to watch it, I need to know what we’re dealing with before I contact the commissioner. For now, keep an eye on Hoffs, she’s pretty upset. And try to keep Penhall and Booker from killing each other. There’s a lot of animosity between them.”

Although playing peacemaker wasn’t exactly Ioki’s idea of productive policing, he nodded his head in agreement. “Sure thing, Coach,” he assured softly, but deep in his heart, he wondered if when push came to shove, whether he really _would_ step in and prevent Penhall from giving Booker the beating he thought the dark-haired officer deserved.

**

A child’s muffled cries sharpened to panicked screams, the gut-wrenching shrieking echoing despairingly throughout the emergency department. The sense of helplessness entwined within the terrified wailing tore at Booker’s heart, reminding him why he hated hospitals. They were places of torment and heartache, their walls forever tarnished with the silent screams of long forgotten souls, their pain rippling through the air in ghostly wakes, chilling those who were now suffering. There was no peace, no tranquility; there was just the toxic fumes of other people’s misery.

Unable to cope with the depressing howling any longer, Booker climbed carefully from the gurney and went in search of a doctor. With his ribs now taped, he wanted to find Tom and give him as much comfort and reassurance as he could, given the circumstances. It was obvious Tom would have reacted to the unexpected turn of events, but how severely it had affected him was anybody’s guess. Despite Booker’s threats, Penhall had remained stubbornly tight-lipped about Tom’s condition, only revealing the young officer required medical treatment. It was another slap in the face for Booker, who constantly found himself left out of the loop. Tom, Doug, Harry, and Judy were friends, whereas he remained on the fringe, an outsider looking in, a stranger denied access to their tight-knit group. But now he and Tom were an item, and that meant everything had changed. He had a _right_ to know about Hanson's condition, and he almost divulged their secret, just to witness the shock on Penhall’s face. However, to do so would also impact on Tom, and he knew his friend wasn’t ready to come clean about their budding relationship. Therefore, despite wanting to stick it to Penhall in the worst way possible, he kept his mouth shut and suffered in silence.

When the attending ER doctor walked past, Booker seized the opportunity and grabbed him by the arm. “Where can I find Officer Hanson.”

“Hanson?” the doctor queried as he continued down the corridor. “I thought his name was Officer Penhall.”

With a shake of his head, Booker ignored the throbbing in his side and falling into step beside the young medic, he followed him down the hallway. “No. Not him. There was another officer brought in by the paramedics, he’s—”

“Booker!” 

At the sound of his name, Dennis spun around, the sudden movement jarring his fractured ribs. A sharp breath hissed between his teeth, and clutching his side, he doubled over, tears of pain springing to his eyes.

Within seconds, Judy Hoffs was by his side, her dark eyes filled with concern. “Geez, Dennis, what did Penhall do to you?”

“I’m okay,” Booker muttered, and straightening up, he appealed to Judy’s altruistic side. “But I need to see Hanson. You came in with him, right? Do you know where he is? How is he? Is he okay?”

The memory of Tom’s tortured eyes when he finally came back to reality and found himself strapped to a gurney would remain with Judy forever, and covering her mouth with her hand, she stifled a sob. “No, he’s not okay, Booker!” she cried. “He’s anything _but_ okay!”

Booker’s blood ran cold in his veins, chilling him to the bone. “Wh-what do you mean?” he stammered. “Where is he? I want to see him.” 

Judy sniffed loudly, her dark eyes brimming with tears. “You can’t. When Tom realized Penhall saw the tape, he completely lost it. They’ve admitted him to the psych ward.”

An intense look of anguish passed over Booker’s face. “No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “They can’t send him there, he’ll be—”

"WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO HIM?” Judy suddenly screamed, her fists pounding on Booker’s chest. “YOU WERE HIS PARTNER! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO PROTECT HIM!” 

After striking several painful blows, Booker finally managed to catch hold of Judy’s wrists, preventing her from causing any further damage to his ribs. “I WAS PROTECTING HIM!” he yelled directly into her face before his anger subsided, and pushing her away, he pleaded with her to understand. “They were gonna kill him, Judy. I swear to God, they were gonna kill him.”

All the fight and anger drained from Judy’s body, leaving her emotionally weakened. Tears pricked at her eyes, and her lower lip trembled uncontrollably. “He _trusted_ you,” she whispered. “He _trusted_ you, and you betrayed him.”

The accusation was too much for Booker to bear, and turning away, he walked toward the exit. “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO REPORT TO FULLER!” Judy yelled after him. But when her directive failed to stop the dark-haired officer, she watched on in silence as he slowly disappeared from view.

**

As the effects of the sedative slowly took hold, Tom closed his eyes and relaxed back against the hard mattress. Memories and thoughts swirled erratically through his mind, adding to his disorientation, and he struggled to distinguish the truth from the distorted images of his imagination. Michael McCarter’s sneering face infused with Booker’s, the distorted caricature creating a dark-haired, leather-jacketed monster, and a soft, frightened moan tumbled from between his lips. Penhall’s voice echoed inside his imagination, his friend’s incredulous cries a painful reminder of his disgrace, and his head moved violently from side to side as he tried to banish the distressing recollections from his mind. Beneath the thin, translucent skin of his eyelids, his eyes darted restlessly, the tranquilizing narcotic flowing through his veins pulling him deeper inside his wretched mind. He was fighting a losing battle to stay awake, to not succumb to the depths of sleep that would leave him trapped within a nightmare. But the drugs were too strong, and expelling a heavy breath, he surrendered his will and fell into a deep state of unconsciousness.

**

The suffocating ambience of the tiny, smoke-filled bar did little to dispel Booker’s despondency, and picking up his beer, he drained the glass and signaled to the barman for another. He had walked into the bar with one single thought on his mind; get mind-numbingly, paralytically, blind drunk, and to hell with the consequences. In the space of an hour, he had downed half-a-dozen whiskeys before switching to beer, and the copious amounts of alcohol flowing through his system soothed the dull ache in his ribs. But with his drunkenness came an increasing sense of despondency, and his mind played over the night’s events. By not informing Fuller of his return and directly ignoring the command to go back to the Chapel, he knew he was in deep shit with his superior officer. But with that knowledge came the realization he did not care. Although he loved being a police officer, his job was no longer the primary focus of his life; Tom was, and he planned to support the young officer through the long, arduous journey of emotional healing. Many would view it as a sacrifice, but for Booker, it was a labor of love. Tom was his everything, and he would move heaven and earth to give him the peace of mind he so justly deserved.

Downing the remainder of his beer, he slipped drunkenly from his stool and staggered out of the bar and into the dimly lit street. As he headed toward the direction of his apartment, the fresh air sobered his intoxicated mind, bringing to the fore a sense of clarity. He imagined Tom lying on a hospital bed; bewildered, broken, abandoned by those who professed to love him most. It was a depressing visual, and a single tear leaked from the corner of his eye. He had failed Tom in so many ways, and he could not imagine how their relationship would ever move forward with the poisonous venom of shame and humiliation infecting their hearts.

With his apartment building in sight, Booker quickened his step. If he were to help Tom, he needed to do so with no other distractions, and his biggest distraction was Jorge. While he had arranged to drop the young Latino at his mother’s house so the two of them could become reacquainted after so many years apart, he now felt an urgency to do it now, rather than wait until morning. Although thankful Jorge had intervened and protected him from Penhall’s vicious assault, he did not want the younger man to get the wrong idea about his gratitude. It was time to break ties so Jorge could move on with his life, and he could focus on giving Tom the comfort he deserved.

When he finally arrived at his apartment, he suddenly realized he didn’t have his keys. He knocked on the door and waited, but when Jorge didn’t answer, he figured he was either frightened or had gone to bed. But when he heard noises inside, he stepped closer and yelled loudly. “JORGE, IT’S DENNIS. OPEN THE DOOR.”

Several seconds passed before the door yanked open. Jorge launched himself at Booker and wrapping his arms around his friend’s neck, his warm lips smothered the startled officer’s face in wet kisses. “Are you okay? I’ve been so worried!”

Gently disengaging from the young man’s embrace, Booker closed the door. “I’m fine.”

Hurt by the cool response, Jorge’s expression became pouty. “So, have you been to see _him?”_

“No,” Booker replied with a weary sigh. “Tom’s in the… he’s not allowed any visitors.”

Surprise widened Jorge’s eyes. “Why?”

Not about to discuss Tom’s mental health with the young Latino, Booker turned away. “It’s not important,” he mumbled.

Warm tendrils of breath tickled the back of Booker’s neck. “Let me make it better,” Jorge whispered, his muscular arms circling the dark-haired officer’s waist. “One night with me and you’ll forget—”

“STOP!” Booker yelled, and twisting out of Jorge’s embrace, he winced as pain erupted in his ribs. “I can’t deal with this. I’m taking you to your mom’s tonight.”

“Dennis, no!” Jorge pleaded, his dark eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“We leave in ten minutes,” Booker muttered, and walking into the bathroom, he slammed the door closed.


	37. Just West of Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This will be my last chapter for at least three weeks. I'm going on holiday, yay!**   
>  **Until then...**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: With his apartment building in sight, Booker quickened his step. If he was to help Tom, he needed to do so with no other distractions, and his biggest distraction was Jorge. While he had arranged to drop the young Latino at his mother’s house so the two of them could become reacquainted after so many years apart, he now felt an urgency to do it now, rather than wait until morning. Although thankful Jorge had intervened and protected him from Penhall’s vicious assault, he did not want the younger man to get the wrong idea about his gratitude. It was time to break ties so Jorge could move on with his life, and he could focus on giving Tom the comfort he deserved._
> 
> _When he finally arrived at his apartment, he suddenly realized he didn’t have his keys. He knocked on the door and waited, but when Jorge didn’t answer, he figured he was either frightened or had gone to bed. But when he heard noises inside, he stepped closer and yelled loudly. “JORGE, IT’S DENNIS. OPEN THE DOOR.”_
> 
> _Several seconds passed before the door yanked open. Jorge launched himself at Booker and wrapping his arms around his friend’s neck, his warm lips smothered the startled officer’s face in wet kisses. “Are you okay? I’ve been so worried!”_
> 
> _Gently disengaging from the young man’s embrace, Booker closed the door. “I’m fine.”_
> 
> _Hurt by the cool response, Jorge’s expression became pouty. “So, have you been to see him?”_
> 
> _“No,” Booker replied with a weary sigh. “Tom’s in the… he’s not allowed any visitors.”_
> 
> _Surprise widened Jorge’s eyes. “Why?”_
> 
> _Not about to discuss Tom’s mental health with the young Latino, Booker turned away. “It’s not important,” he mumbled._
> 
> _Warm tendrils of breath tickled the back of Booker’s neck. “Let me make it better,” Jorge whispered, his muscular arms circling the dark-haired officer’s waist. “One night with me and you’ll forget—”_
> 
> _“STOP!” Booker yelled, and twisting out of Jorge’s embrace, he winced as pain erupted in his ribs. “I can’t deal with this. I’m taking you to your mom’s tonight.”_
> 
> _“Dennis, no!” Jorge pleaded, his dark eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”_
> 
> _“We leave in ten minutes,” Booker muttered, and walking into the bathroom, he slammed the door closed._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35970372175/in/dateposted-public/)

A loud ringing penetrated through the haze of Booker’s dream, the shrill peal slowly transforming into the clang of a school bell. As excited high school students streamed into the wide, sunlit corridor, _Dream Booker_ looked around him, his brow pulled tight with confusion. “I thought we were supposed to be pledging a fraternity.”

 _Dream Tom_ smiled serenely, but the tranquility of the vision soon became a terrifying nightmare. Blood began to pour from a wound in the young officer’s temple, and his peaceful expression slowly mutated into a ghoulish mask of black, decaying flesh. “Silly Dennis,” he grinned through bloodstained teeth. “I _died_ at that fraternity. They killed me, remember? They killed me, and _you_ let them do it!”

With a gasp, Booker’s eyes flew open, the erratic thump of his heart constricting his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. Disoriented by his sleep induced stupor, his eyes frantically scanned the room before settling on the ringing phone beside his bed. It took several moments for his brain to register what was happening, but eventually the fog cleared, and he snatched up the receiver. “WHAT?” he barked.

An anxious voice sounded through the earpiece. “Dennis?”

Booker bolted upright, the phone’s handset clutched tightly in his hand. “Tommy? Oh God, Tommy, are you okay?”

A long silence drifted down the line. “Tom?” Booker whispered. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Tom replied quietly. “I, um, I’m at the hospital.”

The thumping in Booker’s chest intensified, but he managed to keep his voice composed. “I know, baby. I was there last night, but they wouldn’t let me see you.”

Another long pause hung in the air, followed by a loud, distressed sob. “Th-they think I’m c-crazy.”

Pain stabbed through Booker’s heart, and although he sympathized with his friend’s plight, he knew he needed to convince him to stay calm and listen to the doctors. “No, baby, that’s not what they think. They’re just making sure you’re okay.”

Once again, his words were met with a desolate silence, and fearing he had said the wrong thing, he started to apologize, but Tom’s soft voice cut him off. “I just wanna go home.”

The sheer helplessness in Tom’s voice brought tears to Booker’s eyes, but he knew it was in his friend’s best interest to remain in the hospital and receive a full evaluation. “Tom, listen to me,” he commanded quietly. “Just let the doctors do their job, and you’ll be home before you know it.”

“Promise?” 

The softly spoken question was so childlike in its innocence, the tears reflecting brightly in Booker’s dark eyes spilled freely down his cheeks, the tidal release of emotion forcing his sorrow into his throat. “I promise, baby,” he choked. “I promise.”

With nothing left to say, Tom placed the receiver back on the hook. Whether he liked it or not, he was on his own. But it was the slap in the face he needed to get his life back on track, and a spark of determination reignited the long forgotten fire that had lain dormant in his soul since his assault. Staring down at his bandaged arms and feet, he knew where he needed to start. No more self-harming, no more alcohol-fueled benders. He now recognized he needed help, and once free from the confines of the hospital, he would do everything in his power to help Booker too. Together, they would conquer their adversities and rise like phoenixes from the ashes of their shared torment; reborn and ready to experience a new life, cloaked protectively in the love radiating from within their hearts.

**

There was a distinct chill in the air, but it had nothing to do with the weather. Fuller sat at his desk, his mouth pulled into a thin, tight line, the pouchy flesh beneath his eyes adding ten years to his appearance. He was a man under duress, a man struggling with the guilt of his own incompetency. However, he proportioned some dereliction of duty squarely on the shoulders of the arrogant young cop standing in front of him. Try as he might, he was unable to understand how the Holbrook College assignment had got so out of hand. Booker was a skilled police officer, and once Tom was shackled, he should have diffused the situation before it spiraled into the danger zone. By forcing himself to watch the tape, Fuller had hoped it would reveal a satisfactory answer. But besides making him sick to the stomach, the images on the video had only managed to raise more questions. Despite Booker’s claim to the contrary, there was no sign of a gun, and while the disproportionate ratio of Pi Taus to cops was indisputable, the two young officers were trained to enforce the law and take control of potentially volatile situations. Therefore, in Fuller’s mind, nothing Booker had revealed to Penhall made sense, leaving him doubting the word of the young officer. However, as a fair and just man, he was prepared to hear Dennis’ side of the story, and there was no time like the present to get to the bottom of what appeared to be a troubling sequence of events.

“I’ve watched the tape,” the Jump Street captain advised in a cold voice. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Fuller’s piercing glare had Booker feeling like a man condemned, and he shuffled uncomfortably. But despite the visual interrogation, he managed to maintain an expression of false bravado, and his brows drew together in an irritated scowl. “What difference does it make? You, Penhall, and Hoffs already think I’m guilty of assaulting Tom, and Harry’s too polite to weigh in. But hey, here’s a thought. Instead of jumping to conclusions, how ‘bout you ask Hanson what happened, then maybe you can get off my case and leave me alone to do my job.”

Slamming his hands down on the smooth wooden surface of his desk, Fuller leaned forward and spoke in a clipped, angry tone. “You may not _have_ a job, Booker. So drop the tough guy act and tell me what happened.”

The memory of Tom’s terrified screams sent a ripple of shame through Booker’s tense muscles. There had been extenuating circumstances, but there was no getting around the cold, hard facts. He had performed fellatio against Tom’s will, and in many people’s eyes that made him just as guilty as Michael McCarter and the other Pi Taus, maybe more so because Tom had trusted him. They were partners, and although at the time they weren't the best of friends, there was a level of faith between them. But he had betrayed that confidence, and the more he thought about it, the more surprised he was Tom had forgiven him. However, it appeared Fuller would not be so easily swayed, and he now found himself not only fighting to keep his job but also fighting to clear his name.

But eventually, the unwanted scrutiny had the desired effect, and his stoic countenance faltered. The defiant spark in his eyes faded and terrified of revealing the extent of his emotions to his superior, he lowered his gaze to the floor. “They were gonna hurt him,” he muttered. “Why won’t you believe me?”

Fuller continued to study Booker with suspicion for several long minutes before his facial muscles relaxed, and he exhaled a long, weary sigh. “Okay, Booker, if that’s what you say happened, then I have to trust your word. But there’s something I need to know. Given your apparent _interest_ in Tom, is working with him going to be a problem?”

The inquiry was not what Booker expected, and the audacity of the question brought forth another furious scowl. “Who says I’m interested in Tom?” he snapped. “Just because I did what I did doesn’t mean I—”

“Don’t lie to me, Booker,” Fuller interrupted. “It’s no secret you have feelings for Hanson, and to be honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your sexual proclivities. What I _do_ care about is the safety of my officers, and given the amateurish way you handled this last case, I want your assurance your feelings for Tom won’t get in the way of you doing your job.”

“So, does that mean I still _have_ a job?” Booker asked by way of deflection.

Unfazed by the smart-ass response, Fuller returned a smug smile. “That all depends on your answer. But even if I'm satisfied, you're still looking at six months’ probation, and you’d better believe it what I say, one slip up and I'll have your badge. So, I'll ask you again. _Is_ working with Hanson going to be a problem?” 

It was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question Booker could not honestly answer. As a cop, he knew it was a bad idea to become involved with someone he worked with day in, day out. In their line of work, having a romantic preoccupation with one’s partner could become a distraction, and a distraction could well lead to death. Then there was the whole _what if the relationship failed_ scenario. A scorned ex-lover could also prove dangerous if it prevented him from keeping his mind on the job. It seemed whichever way he looked at it, getting involved with Hanson was a bad idea. However, he’d never been a conformist, and even though he was an officer of the law, he enjoyed a certain amount of rebellion in his life. Also, as far as Fuller and the others were concerned, his affection for Tom wasn’t reciprocated, and no one knew they were now a couple. If they did, he was certain the news would not be well-received, especially by Penhall. The larger than life officer was incredibly protective of Tom, and Booker was certain it would blow his mind to think his best friend was now in a relationship with another man. Not that Dennis thought Penhall was homophobic, he just knew the officer well enough to know there would be a certain amount of jealousy attached to his resentment. But the realization was of little consequence to Booker. Foremost on his mind was convincing his captain he was not a liability, and the rest, as was so often quoted, would take care of itself.

“Well?” Fuller pressed, a slight impatience tainting his voice. 

Pulling himself up to his full height, Booker looked his superior straight in the eye. “No problem at all, Coach. Hanson and I are just friends. I know it’ll never be anything more than that.”

Although not a hundred percent convinced, Fuller decided to give Booker the benefit of the doubt, and studying the young officer’s battered face, he issued his final directive. “Penhall’s having a hard time dealing with what happened to Hanson. I think it would be best if the two of you kept your distance. Understood?”

“Yes, Cap’n,” Booker muttered, resentment shining in his dark eyes. Although he still had his job, his victory was bittersweet. He could sense an underlying tone of disapproval in the older man’s voice, indicating a level of distrust, and after receiving a dismissive nod, he walked out into the Chapel’s central hub with the burden of a man condemned still weighing heavily on his shoulders.

**

As the setting sun bathed the city’s skyline in soft, amber hues, Booker poured himself another whiskey and flopping back against the couch cushions, he stared morosely at the television. Don LaFontaine’s dulcet tones filled the room, the latest _America’s Most Wanted_ episode filling the small screen. But for the young officer, even watching his favorite true crime show did little to dampen his melancholy mood, and taking a large swallow of his drink, he thought back over the last few days. With no further communication from Tom, he had attempted to alleviate his fears by throwing himself back into his work. However, he soon found he was a social outcast among his peers. No one spoke to him, in fact, no one even acknowledged him except for Penhall, whose dark, penetrative glare followed him around the room. It made for an uncomfortable working environment, and after only one day, he had asked Fuller for a job— _any_ job—no matter how menial that would give him the freedom to work alone. Fuller obliged without question, and so he had found himself in the basement, cataloging old case files in readiness for their transfer to the L.A.P.D.’s central records office. It was a slow, tedious job, but it gave him the opportunity to forget about his colleagues upstairs and lose himself in the banality of filing, giving him some measure of peace.

Draining the last swallow of whiskey from his glass, he flicked off the television and rose slowly from the couch. Life no longer had the same level of urgency, the same sense of adventure as it had only a month ago. Everything had changed, he’d sacrificed so much, and he found himself gravitating more and more toward the sanctuary of sleep, which he knew was a sure sign of depression. However, he tried hard to fight through the misery and stay positive, if only for Tom’s sake. With the young officer’s seventy-two-hour observation order due to expire in the morning, he now faced the agony of a long, nervous wait, hoping and praying to whichever God was listening that the doctors would not seek an extension. 

It was the fear of the unknown that eventually convinced him to give in to his despondency—if only for a short while—and go to bed. To continue drinking was a bad idea, even if the alcohol did dull his senses, it didn’t blot out any of the uncertainty surrounding his and Tom's future.

So when the sharp ring of the phone cut through the silence, he almost didn’t answer it. But eventually, curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up the receiver. “Booker.”

Silence echoed down the line, and thinking it was a wrong number, he was about to hang up when the soft, hesitant voice he dreamed about every night whispered the news he'd been waiting to hear. “Dennis, I’m coming home.”


	38. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **My apologies for how long it has taken me to post this chapter.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: As the setting sun bathed the city’s skyline in soft, amber hues, Booker poured himself another whiskey and flopping back against the couch cushions, he stared morosely at the television. Don LaFontaine’s dulcet tones filled the room, the latest America’s Most Wanted episode filling the small screen. But for the young officer, even watching his favorite true crime show did little to dampen his melancholy mood, and taking a large swallow of his drink, he thought back over the last few days. With no further communication from Tom, he had attempted to alleviate his fears by throwing himself back into his work. However, he soon found he was a social outcast among his peers. No one spoke to him, in fact, no one even acknowledged him except for Penhall, whose dark, penetrative glare followed him around the room. It made for an uncomfortable working environment, and after only one day, he had asked Fuller for a job—any job—no matter how menial that would give him the freedom to work alone. Fuller obliged without question, and so he had found himself in the basement, cataloging old case files in readiness for their transfer to the L.A.P.D.’s central records office. It was a slow, tedious job, but it gave him the opportunity to forget about his colleagues upstairs and lose himself in the banality of filing, giving him some measure of peace._
> 
> _Draining the last swallow of whiskey from his glass, he flicked off the television and rose slowly from the couch. Life no longer had the same level of urgency, the same sense of adventure as it had only a month ago. Everything had changed, he’d sacrificed so much, and he found himself gravitating more and more toward the sanctuary of sleep, which he knew was a sure sign of depression. However, he tried hard to fight through the misery and stay positive, if only for Tom’s sake. With the young officer’s seventy-two-hour observation order due to expire in the morning, he now faced the agony of a long, nervous wait, hoping and praying to whichever God was listening that the doctors would not seek an extension._
> 
> _It was the fear of the unknown that eventually convinced him to give in to his despondency—if only for a short while—and go to bed. To continue drinking was a bad idea, even if the alcohol did dull his senses, it didn’t blot out any of the uncertainty surrounding his and Tom's future._
> 
> _So when the sharp ring of the phone cut through the silence, he almost didn’t answer it. But eventually, curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up the receiver. “Booker.”_
> 
> _Silence echoed down the line, and thinking it was a wrong number, he was about to hang up when the soft, hesitant voice he dreamed about every night whispered the news he'd been waiting to hear. “Dennis, I’m coming home.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35581404690/in/dateposted-public/)

The automatic doors closed behind Booker, the innocuous _whoosh_ still managing to rattle his frazzled nerves. Although brightly decorated, the psych wing of St. Jude’s hospital radiated a distinct ambience of despondency, and with the artificial heat pumping through the vents adding to the heaviness of the air, the oppressive climate quickly dampened the dark-haired officer’s mood. Upon waking up that morning, he had felt excited knowing he was about to see Tom again. However, as he stood in the depressingly cheerful waiting area, he suddenly understood the magnitude of Hanson’s mental breakdown, and the enormity of the situation sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine. It was a sobering reminder of just how much his friend had suffered, and he wondered if the Tom Hanson he was about to lay eyes on would in any way resemble the Tom Hanson of old, or if the fun, vibrant man he had fallen in love with would only remain alive in his memories.

Lost in the black hole of his thoughts, he barely noticed the hulking figure rising from one of the red plastic chairs lining the walls until the man purposely stepped in front of him, blocking his path. 

“’Scuse me,” Booker muttered with an absent smile, but his expression froze when he recognized the brown eyes glaring back at him.

“What are _you_ doing here?” the two officers chimed in unison.

Penhall’s mouth turned down at the corners, his dour expression marring his good looks. “Tom called to say he was going home, so I thought I’d surprise him and pick him up.”

A smug smile curved Booker’s lips. “Yeah? Well, Tom called me too, except he _asked_ me to pick him up, so…”

Doug’s eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “You’re lying. Why the hell would he call you after what you—”

“AFTER I _WHAT?”_ Booker yelled. “AFTER I SAVED HIS LIFE?”

A middle-aged nurse scurried out from behind the reception desk, her prominent jaw clenched in anger. “Gentlemen! If you can’t moderate your voices, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The two scowling officers faced off for another few seconds before Booker took a step back. “Sorry,” he apologized softly. “I, um, I’m here to pick up Tom Hanson. Is he ready to go?”

Despite the nurse’s warning, Penhall could not contain his rising fury. “OVER MY DEAD BODY!” he exclaimed loudly. “YOU NEED TO BACK OFF AND FOCUS YOUR SICK OBSESSION ON SOMEONE ELSE!”

With the dull ache in his bruised ribs acting as a painful reminder of the thrashing he'd received at the hands of his antagonist, Booker’s temper exploded. “OBSESSION? YOU'RE THE ONE WITH THE OBSESSION! YOU TREAT TOM LIKE HE’S YOUR FUCKING—”

“Doug? Dennis?”

The familiar voice had both men spinning around, their mutual hostility momentarily forgotten. “Tommy!” they chorused, but Penhall managed to one-up Booker, and pushing rudely past the dark-haired officer, he approached Tom and pulled him into a tight bear hug. “Man, I’ve missed you,” he grinned against his friend’s ear.

Tom’s body visibly stiffened before he gently extricated himself from Penhall’s hold, and taking a step back, he wrapped his arms protectively around his chest, the corners of his lips twitching nervously. “Why are you fighting?” he asked, his eyes darting anxiously from his best friend to his prospective lover and back again.

Booker started to move forward, but when he noticed a shadow of uncertainty in Tom’s dark eyes he immediately stopped. “We weren’t,” he lied, a reassuring smile gracing his bow-shaped lips. “Doug and I were just surprised to see each other, that’s all.”

“Really?” Tom challenged, his pale face pulled tight with worry. “Because it sounded like you were tearing each other a new one.”

Not wanting to agitate his friend any further, Penhall hurriedly interjected. “It’s not a big deal. Dennis got his wires crossed ‘cause for some reason, he seems to think he’s your ride.”

“Oh,” Tom replied quietly, his gaze lowering to the floor. “Um, I guess that’s ‘cause he is.”

Penhall’s pompous expression faltered, and he stared back at Tom with wide-eyed disbelief. _“What?_ You’re not seriously gonna let this pervert—”

“ENOUGH!” the nurse yelled, and stepping in front of Tom, she created a protective shield between him and the two disgruntled officers. “I don’t care _what_ your differences are, I won’t be sending Officer Hanson home with _either_ of you until you calm down and start behaving like responsible adults!”

Subdued by the nurse’s acerbic tone, Penhall lowered his gaze and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Yes, ma’am.”

With the volatile situation now contained, the woman turned and addressed Hanson. “You know you don’t have to go home with either of these men, Tom,” she advised, the soft folds of skin around her mouth relaxing into a kind smile. “I can arrange transport for you, or if you’d prefer to wait a while longer, I can organize a session with Doctor Ross so you can talk through your anxiety.”

“Anxiety?” Penhall blurted out in surprise. “Whaddya mean _anxiety?_ I thought he was ok—”

Booker’s sharp elbow ramming into his ribs quickly silenced him, and for the first time since arriving at the hospital, Doug took the time to study his friend’s face. Dark shadows filled the hollow sockets that had formed beneath Tom’s eyes, the contrast against the paleness of his skin giving him the appearance of a little boy lost. His typically youthful countenance bore traces of fatigue, and his stance reminded Penhall of a frightened deer skittishly poised to take flight at the slightest sign of provocation. Although still Tom, the nervous figure standing before him was not the man he knew as his friend, workmate, and confidante, he was a man who had suffered a traumatic experience, he was a man crippled with emotional pain.

Although not a Booker fan, fear and uncertainty about his friend’s future soon had Penhall reevaluating his feelings about the dark-haired officer. Tom needed a friend, _any_ friend, to help him through what was sure to be an excruciatingly long road toward recovery. He was still wary of Booker’s motives, but he could _almost_ understand Tom’s compulsion to keep him in his life. Dennis was the only one who completely understood the reality of Tom’s suffering because he had witnessed it. However, the fact the arrogant officer had also added to his friend’s pain was harder for Penhall to reconcile in his mind, and he still felt uncomfortable when he thought about Booker spending too much time with Tom. But as his friend, he needed to trust Hanson’s instincts, and he figured there was a valid reason Tom wanted Booker around. Therefore, he made the decision to back off and let Dennis take a leading role in Tom’s recovery. However, he planned on keeping an eye on the relationship from a distance. That way, he wouldn’t upset Tom unnecessarily, and he could be there to console his friend when Booker finally revealed himself as the self-serving sonofabitch Penhall knew him to be.

“Tom?” the nurse prompted softly. “Do you want to see Doctor Ross?”

Embarrassed by the question, Tom slowly shook his head. “No, I just want to go home... with Dennis.”

The nurse cast a sharp, critical eye over Booker and Penhall. “Which one of you is Dennis?” she barked.

Booker cleared his throat, and feeling like a naughty school boy, he slowly raised his hand. “Um, I am.”

With a reproachful glare, the nurse turned and spoke to Penhall. “Are you going to cause any trouble?”

“No, ma’am,” Penhall responded quietly, and stepping in front of Booker, he spoke directly to Tom. “If you need anything, call me, okay, pal?”

Tom nodded silently, his expression unreadable, and sighing heavily, Penhall turned away. After shooting Booker a withering look, he glanced back over his shoulder at Tom. But when he received no further reaction, he grudgingly accepted his friend’s decision and left the building.

**

The aftermath of Tom’s rage lay strewn throughout his apartment, the detritus a stark reminder of the severity of his breakdown. Broken knick-knacks and CDs littered the room, the light dancing off the scratched surfaces of the polycarbonate discs creating an animated rainbow of color, the effect adding a splash of surrealism to the chaotic scene. The television’s broken screen grinned ominously, its jagged edges a sinister reminder of the damage Tom had inflicted on his bare feet, and embarrassment prickled his skin. Doug had witnessed his meltdown, and he wondered if his best friend would ever view him in the same way again, or if the disturbing exposure of his damaged psyche would destroy their friendship forever.

In an attempt to hide his shame, he picked up his copy of Alice Cooper’s _Trash_ and ran his fingers reverently over the scratched surface. “Well, that’s apt,” he joked lamely. 

But Booker wasn’t fooled by his friend’s pretense at humor. He could see Tom was hurting, and placing an arm around his shoulders, he gave a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. You can always come home with me.”

A sad smile curved Tom’s lips. “Thanks, but somehow I don’t think Jorge would approve, and the three of us in your apartment would be kinda awkward.”

Surprised by the response, Booker cupped Tom’s pale face in the palm of his hand. “I _told_ you, Jorge and I aren’t together. Anyway, I took him to his mom’s the same night you…” His voice faltered, and his mouth twitched apologetically. “Well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Tom sighed, his shoulders sagging wearily, “I know.”

A gloomy silence hung in the air, the officers’ somber expressions a perfect accompaniment to the disarray surrounding them. For Booker, it was a scene straight out of a _movie of the week,_ and he could almost hear a bow drawing lightly across the strings of a cello, the dark, pensive notes musically depicting the melancholy mood in the room. However, despite the burden of regret still weighing heavily on his heart, he was determined to forget his own mental suffering and focus on helping Tom. If he could continue to smile through his emotional pain, Tom would never know the internal struggle he fought every day as he tried to come to terms with the abuse he had willingly allowed Ingram Holland to inflict upon him. He was an expert at internalizing his problems, and when he put his mind to it, he could mask his misery as effectively as the proverbial sad clown. It was a coping mechanism he had adopted back in high school, and after years of experience, he now considered himself the master of deceit. 

Forcing a smile to his lips, he nodded toward Tom’s bedroom. “Go pack a bag, then we can get something to eat.”

Although food was the last thing on Tom’s mind, he managed a polite smile. The SSRI medication his doctor had prescribed was playing havoc with his stomach, and he felt sweaty and nauseous. But he was trying hard to fight through his agitation, to present himself as _whole_ so as not to cause Booker any undue worry. He knew he was a millstone around his new friend’s neck, and even though he sincerely believed Booker loved him, he wondered how much of that love was now based on a sense of guilt and responsibility. It was a thought that plagued him ever since his breakdown because for the first time in his life, he no longer felt equal to his peers. Instead, he was the screwball friend who freaked out and destroyed his belongings before withdrawing into the inner sanctum of his damaged mind. He was a laughingstock, a pathetic fool, and he could not help but wonder how long it would take Booker to realize he was not worth the effort, thereby leaving him to battle his demons alone. 

Pushing the unsettling thought from his mind, he grabbed a bag and stuffed it full of clothing. He entered the bathroom and picking up his toothbrush, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. With its pinched face and expressionless eyes dulled by fatigue, the haunting apparition was a mocking caricature of the man it represented, and at that moment, Tom could feel the light inside him slowly fading, his life’s flame suffocating beneath the cold, shadowy hand of gloom. Immediately, a flutter of fear quickened his heart. If he allowed his depression to douse the fire completely, the darkness enveloping his soul would consume what remained of the man within, and he would become the embodiment of the ghostly figure staring back at him.

Tears welled in the young officer’s eyes, but he quickly blinked them back, refusing to give in to his emotions yet again. Although he was trying his best to push through his psychological pain, he knew he needed to try harder. If he didn’t toughen up, he would lose the only shining light left in his life, and no matter how miserable he felt inside, he was not prepared to forfeit his relationship with Booker before it had even begun. There was something unique about the man who had risked it all to bring him the tapes, and he longed to know the full extent of his friend’s love because he had a feeling Dennis was someone worth loving.

With a newfound tenacity momentarily lifting his spirit, Tom took a moment to practice smiling in the mirror. However, the result was more a strained grimace than a cheerful grin, and giving the idea up as a bad joke, he exhaled a heavy sigh of resignation and walked out of the room.


	39. The Trust I Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: A gloomy silence hung in the air, the officers’ somber expressions a perfect accompaniment to the disarray surrounding them. For Booker, it was a scene straight out of a movie of the week, and he could almost hear a bow drawing lightly across the strings of a cello, the dark, pensive notes musically depicting the melancholy mood in the room. However, despite the burden of regret still weighing heavily on his heart, he was determined to forget his own mental suffering and focus on helping Tom. If he could continue to smile through his emotional pain, Tom would never know the internal struggle he fought every day as he tried to come to terms with the abuse he had willingly allowed Ingram Holland to inflict upon him. He was an expert at internalizing his problems, and when he put his mind to it, he could mask his misery as effectively as the proverbial sad clown. It was a coping mechanism he had adopted back in high school, and after years of experience, he now considered himself the master of deceit._
> 
> _Forcing a smile to his lips, he nodded toward Tom’s bedroom. “Go pack a bag, then we can get something to eat.”_
> 
> _Although food was the last thing on Tom’s mind, he managed a polite smile. The SSRI medication his doctor had prescribed was playing havoc with his stomach, and he felt sweaty and nauseous. But he was trying hard to fight through his agitation, to present himself as whole so as not to cause Booker any undue worry. He knew he was a millstone around his new friend’s neck, and even though he sincerely believed Booker loved him, he wondered how much of that love was now based on a sense of guilt and responsibility. It was a thought that plagued him ever since his breakdown because for the first time in his life, he no longer felt equal to his peers. Instead, he was the screwball friend who freaked out and destroyed his belongings before withdrawing into the inner sanctum of his damaged mind. He was a laughingstock, a pathetic fool, and he could not help but wonder how long it would take Booker to realize he was not worth the effort, thereby leaving him to battle his demons alone._
> 
> _Pushing the unsettling thought from his mind, he grabbed a bag and stuffed it full of clothing. He entered the bathroom and picking up his toothbrush, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. With its pinched face and expressionless eyes dulled by fatigue, the haunting apparition was a mocking caricature of the man it represented, and at that moment, Tom could feel the light inside him slowly fading, his life’s flame suffocating beneath the cold, shadowy hand of gloom. Immediately, a flutter of fear quickened his heart. If he allowed his depression to douse the fire completely, the darkness enveloping his soul would consume what remained of the man within, and he would become the embodiment of the ghostly figure staring back at him._
> 
> _Tears welled in the young officer’s eyes, but he quickly blinked them back, refusing to give in to his emotions yet again. Although he was trying his best to push through his psychological pain, he knew he needed to try harder. If he didn’t toughen up, he would lose the only shining light left in his life, and no matter how miserable he felt inside, he was not prepared to forfeit his relationship with Booker before it had even begun. There was something unique about the man who had risked it all to bring him the tapes, and he longed to know the full extent of his friend’s love because he had a feeling Dennis was someone worth loving._
> 
> _With a newfound tenacity momentarily lifting his spirit, Tom took a moment to practice smiling in the mirror. However, the result was more a strained grimace than a cheerful grin, and giving the idea up as a bad joke, he exhaled a heavy sigh of resignation and walked out of the room._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35160892153/in/dateposted-public/)

**That evening**

The last-quarter moon shone valiantly through a thin veil of clouds, the silvery glow creating an aura of mystique in the night sky. Captivated by its shimmering beauty, Tom gazed out of the bathroom window, the toothbrush between his teeth temporarily forgotten. The celestial body’s esoteric energy imbued in him a spiritual calm, and for the first time since his assault, he felt at peace. However, it was not only the moon’s magisterial presence subduing his frazzled nerves. He could not deny the cathartic effect Booker had on him, which was rather amusing given the dark-haired officer’s history of provocation. But a lot had changed since their first case together, and from deep within the bitter animosity, an unexpected relationship had blossomed, proving that even the most unlikely of rivals could eventually become friends given the right set of circumstances.

A dribble of foam formed at the corner of Tom's mouth, and removing his toothbrush, he leaned over the hand basin and spat out the residual spearmint flavored paste. After rinsing thoroughly, he straightened up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he studied his reflection in the small, mottled mirror. This time, there was no ghostly vision staring back at him, and although uncharacteristically pale, the face was his own. But with his relief came an uneasy feeling, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pharmacy bottle filled with green and white capsules. As he turned the orange vial over in his hand, Doctor Ross’ warning echoed in his mind, _“There are side effects to consider when taking SSRIs, Tom. Anti-anxiety medication can cause nausea, insomnia, nervousness, impotence...”_

The word _impotence_ reverberated loudly inside Tom’s head, the term mocking him with its power to emasculate him to a point where he would no longer feel like a man. The Pi Taus had already robbed him of his dignity, and he would be damned if he would let an innocent looking pill deprive him of the pleasure of an orgasm. Not that he’d had one since his rape, even his brief sexual encounter with Booker hadn’t awakened his dormant cock. He did, however, remain optimistic that his sexual urges would return, and therein lay the problem. If he took the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, he knew he could kiss that hope goodbye, and another tiny piece of his soul would slowly succumb to the cold, shadowy hand of doom. It was a terrifying thought because in his heart, he knew if he allowed the darkness to infect him again, he would not have the strength to fight it, even with Booker by his side. 

Impulsively, he unscrewed the vial’s cap and tilted the container. But a moment of clarity stopped him before the pills fell into the basin, and quickly replacing the lid, he shoved the bottle back in his pocket. If he and Booker were to have any chance at a meaningful relationship, he needed to trust the young officer with all his darkest secrets, and that meant discussing his medical treatment and the possibility of the SSRIs causing him erectile dysfunction.

With the fate of his future now riding on his decision, he took a deep, calming breath, and walked out into the living area of Booker’s messy apartment. Dennis sat on the sofa, a bottle of beer in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other. A haze of smoke hung above his head, leading Tom to the conclusion that the dark-haired officer had smoked more than one cigarette during the time it had taken him to shower and brush his teeth. The sight caused his hands to tremble slightly and his stomach to flutter with nervous energy. He was about to lay his cards on the table, and he had no idea how Booker would react.

The sound of the bathroom door opening alerted Dennis to Tom’s presence, and stubbing out his cigarette, he turned and faced his friend. “Find everything you needed?” he asked with a warm smile.

“Yeah, thanks,” Tom replied absently, his eyes not quite meeting Booker’s inquisitive gaze.

Surprised by the hesitant edge in Hanson’s voice, Booker placed his beer bottle on the coffee table and stood up. “Is everything okay?” he inquired softly, his eyes automatically focusing on the crisscross of scars covering Tom’s forearms. “Do you need—”

“The doctor prescribed these,” Tom blurted out, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the vial of Prozac and offered it to Booker. “But I don’t want to take them.”

Booker took the container and carefully studied the label. While he accepted Tom’s aversion to drugs, the effects of Prozac were far more dangerous than popping a couple of Tylenol, and although medically inexperienced, he understood enough to know you shouldn't just stop taking the medication unless supervised by a doctor. The knowledge immediately made him cautious, and moving over to the couch, he sat down. “Talk to me,” he encouraged softly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Tom hesitated for a moment before taking a seat next to his friend. Unsure how to proceed, he lifted his thumb up to his mouth and nervously chewed on a piece of red raw skin protruding from around the base of the nail. Fiercely private, he found opening up and talking about his _feelings_ incredibly awkward, and even though he _wanted_ to share his concerns with the man he trusted with his life, now the moment had arrived, he found his composure slipping. A feverish heat colored his cheeks, adding an air of vulnerability to his troubled face, and ducking his head, his lips twitched apologetically. “Nothing,” he mumbled into his hand. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

The emotionally evocative sight took Booker’s breath away, and he longed to take Tom in his arms and kiss away the pain. But ignoring whatever was troubling the young officer would not make the problem magically disappear, and while he respected Tom’s right to make his own choices about his treatment, he decided to play devil’s advocate just to get him talking. After a moment’s pause, he took hold of his friend’s wrist and gently removed his hand from his mouth. “Sorry, Tommy, but I can’t forget it. Tell me why you don’t want to take something that’ll make you feel better.”

Caught in a trap of his own making, Tom reluctantly accepted defeat and puffing out his cheeks, he exhaled a heavy sigh and flopped back against the sofa’s cushions, his lower lip pushing into a sulky pout. “Because they’ll make me impotent.”

Booker only just managed to disguise his surprise, but with Tom’s dark eyes carefully studying his face, looking for a reaction, he knew he needed to think fast or risk making matters worse. “Um, okay,” he replied slowly, his mind desperately searching for the right response. “But it doesn’t happen to everyone, right? So maybe you should—”

“NO!” Tom exclaimed loudly, and jumping to his feet, he started to pace around the small room, his fingers raking frantically through his damp hair in a gesture of wordless exasperation. 

Concerned by the outburst, Booker stood up, his chocolate brown eyes softening with compassion. “Tommy–”

“DON’T _TOMMY_ ME!” Tom yelled, his eyes flashing with frustration. “DON’T YOU GET IT? IF I CAN’T GET IT UP, THEN YOU AND I CAN’T HAVE A RELATIONSHIP!”

“Is _that_ what’s worrying you?” Booker responded in surprise. “Baby, I don’t give a damn about the sex, I just want you to get well.”

They were the words Tom needed to hear, but deep in his heart, he knew they weren’t true. His lower lip started to tremble, and the emotions he’d battle so hard to contain spilled forth in a torrent of grief. Ashamed, he covered his face with his hands, but when Booker’s arms encircled him, he leaned into the embrace and allowed his head to fall against the dark-haired officer’s broad, muscular chest. “They’ve taken everything from me,” he wept. _“Everything!”_

“Shhh,” Dennis crooned against the contours of Tom’s ear. “We can get through this.”

With a loud sniff, Tom pulled away, his dark eyes shining with unshed tears. “How?”

Taking Tom by the hand, Booker led him over to the couch and sat down. When the young officer was seated beside him, he spoke in a calm, gentle voice. “Are you serious about coming off your meds?”

Taken aback by the question, Tom hesitated before answering. He had expected Booker to fight his decision, to tell him to listen to his doctor and everything would be okay. So to know his friend was prepared to discuss his concerns lessened his anxiety, and wiping the tears from his eyes, he took a deep breath and answered honestly. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Booker replied with a slow nod of his head. “Well, I guess we need to make an appointment with your doctor.”

 _“We?”_ Tom questioned, the rising pitch of his voice emphasizing his surprise.

Booker grinned. “Idiot. Of course _we._ We’re a couple… I mean, we _are_ a couple, aren’t we?”

A shy smile lit up Tom’s face, and leaning forward, he brushed his lips over Dennis’ full pout. 

“Mmm, I’ll take that as a yes,” Booker murmured, and pulling Tom into his arms, he deepened the kiss. 

Lost in the moment, Tom allowed Booker to push him backward so he was lying on the couch. He could feel his lover’s muscular contours pressing against him, molding their bodies into one cohesive being. Their teeth and tongues clashed as their passion intensified, and pushing open Tom’s legs, Booker ground against his lover, his cock lengthening with every frantic thrust. But the sensation of Booker’s rigid manhood pressing against his own flaccid cock brought home the reality of Tom’s limitations. Booker’s motor was revved and ready to go, and while Tom’s mind was willing and able, his body remained stubbornly unresponsive. It was not how he envisioned their first time, he wanted equal terms, equal pleasure, and breaking the kiss, he gazed up into his lover’s dilated pupils, his chest rising and falling in a breathless pant. “Um, maybe we should cool it until… well, until I can…”

A brief flash of disappointment flickered in Booker’s eyes. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” he sighed.

“Sorry,” Tom muttered ruefully. “It’s just—”

Booker’s soft lips devoured the remainder of Tom’s sentence. The kiss was slow and chaste compared to their previous passionate encounter, and when they broke apart, the dark-haired officer gazed lovingly into Tom’s eyes. “Never apologize. I want you to feel what I feel, okay?”

Relief relaxed Tom’s face into a smile. “Okay.”

Ignoring the throbbing in his groin, Booker sat up, and picking up his beer, he swallowed down the last few mouthfuls. However, the refreshing, malty beverage did little to calm his rising nerves. Now his ultimate dream of making love to Tom was fast approaching reality, a carelessly made promise had come into play, and he knew he needed to fess up, or risk the life of the man he was trying to protect.

Immediately, his impulsive nature came to the fore, and without taking any time to think through what he was about to say, he spoke his mind. “Um, Tom, I appreciate your honesty, so I think now’s the time for me to tell you _my_ secret.”

Surprise raised Tom’s eyebrows, and sitting up, he studied Booker’s carefully masked expression. “O- _kay,”_ he replied slowly, a ripple of fear running down his spine. “So tell me.”

Booker shifted nervously in his seat. “It’s stupid, I mean, I never thought it would happen, but now we’re together—”

“Just tell me,” Tom requested in a rush of words, the adrenaline sweeping through his body quickening his pulse.

This time, Booker thought long and hard before speaking because just one thoughtlessly spoken word could jeopardize their relationship before it had even begun. “Okay. Well, when my _contract_ ended with Holland, I was concerned about leaving Jorge. He’d suffered so much, and all I could think about was finding a way to convince Holland to let him leave with me.”

“Go on,” Tom urged, the uncertainty steadily increasing his anxiety.

With a faint trace of an apologetic smile, Booker continued. “So, at first, Holland wouldn’t even consider it, but then he got this idea, and ‘cause I never thought it would happen, I agreed to it. But you’ve gotta understand, Tommy, I had no choice, I _had_ to get Jorge out of there, and anyway, I never would’ve gone through with it, it was an empty promise, nothing more.”

The room swam in front of Tom’s eyes, but he pushed through his rising panic and clenching his hands into fists, he attempted to focus on Booker’s wavering face. “Through with _what,_ exactly?”

It was then Booker wondered if he had made a terrible mistake. Tom’s mental state was still fragile, and there was a certain amount of jealousy between him and Jorge. Also, now he was about to admit what he had agreed to, it seemed unbelievably selfish and immoral. However, in his defense, he had suffered unspeakable physical and emotional stress, both of which had severely affected his cognitive thought process. Nevertheless, in the cold light of day, it now seemed a lame excuse, and he wished he hadn’t acted so irrationally. What he was about to reveal could have a negative impact on Tom’s recovery, and knowing he was about to cause his friend more psychological pain created a dull, physical ache in his heart. He was about to break his lover's trust, and he had no idea how the young officer would react.

But despite his reservations, he knew there was no turning back, and taking a deep breath, he revealed his shameful secret. “I made a promise to Holland that if you and I ever got together, I’d secretly film the first time we had sex and give him the tape.”

When the meaning of Booker’s words became apparent, Tom’s features contorted with shock. _“WHAT?”_ he exclaimed, his voice shaking with anger. “You bargained _MY_ body so you could save Jorge’s? How could you do that? How the _fuck_ could you do that?”

A look of pain flashed across Booker’s face, the way lightning cuts through the sky, and grasping Tom’s hand in both of his, his dark, soulful eyes implored his friend to understand. “I would never have done it, Tom, never! But I had to agree so I could save Jorge!”

With a disgruntled snort, Tom snatched his hand away. “Jorge. It’s always about Jorge. Why don’t you just admit it, you’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

Booker raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “What? Of _course_ I’m not in love with him, I’m in love with _you!”_

Rising to his feet, Tom stared down at his friend, his expression scornful. “Then why did you tell me? The whole story’s bullshit, Booker. There’s no _way_ Holland could ever know if we had sex, and if, by some freak occurrence, he did, what the _hell_ was he going to do about it when you didn’t produce a tape? You’re taunting me. You’re throwing Jorge back in my face and—”

“NO I’M NOT!” Booker yelled, and jumping up, he grabbed Tom by the shoulders. “Holland’s a psychopath! Don’t you get it? He’ll know when we’ve had sex, he has spies _EVERYWHERE! FUCK!_ He could even have this apartment bugged! So if we do have sex, trust me, he’ll find out, and when I _don’t_ produce a tape, he’ll go after Jorge! I had to tell you because now we’re together I have to warn him to be careful, and I didn’t want to go and see him behind your back!”

For Tom, jealousy was an unfamiliar emotion, and the rapid surge of anger, envy, sadness and resentment welling up inside his chest left him shaking with uncertainty. There was no denying the obvious, Jorge was blessed with the alluring physical attributes of a modern-day Adonis, and in comparison, the Jump Street officer felt inferior and unattractive. All of a sudden, he began to doubt the integrity of Booker’s affections, and humiliation prickled his skin. He should have known he was now unworthy of _real_ love, after all, who in their right mind would respect and cherish someone who had allowed seven men to violate their body in the worst way possible? Somehow, he had forgotten Jorge’s own horror story, his subjection to rape, manipulation, and torture since the age of fifteen. When he thought of the young Latino, he saw a captivating young man endued with the seductive powers, under whose shining light he visibly paled. There was no comparison; Jorge had an intoxicating presence, whereas he barely managed to control the ever-present panic associated with his rape. Whether he liked it or not, he was the antithesis of the provocative, alluring, innocent young Latino, and therefore, he did not blame Booker for falling for someone so bewitchingly beautiful. There was no way he could compete, and he felt foolish for allowing himself to believe he had any chance with someone as charismatic as Booker.

Dejection dulled his eyes, but he was determined to free his friend from any sense of obligation, and a sad, capitulating smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Trust me, I _do_ get it, and I think you should go to him because he can give you everything I can’t; he can make you happy.”

Booker’s face registered shock. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he cried. “I love _you,_ Tommy, not Jorge! _You_ make me happy, not him! What do I have to do to make you believe me? All I want to do is warn Jorge, not fucking sleep with him!”

The passion behind Booker’s outburst immediately had Tom questioning the validity of his self-doubt, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. Despite what most people thought, Booker was fiercely loyal and protective, and he should have known the young officer would shield Jorge from Holland in whatever way possible. It had nothing to do with love, Jorge was Dennis’ friend, and the young officer had an obligation to warn him of Holland’s intentions.

Keeping his gaze firmly on the floor, he shuffled uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he apologized softly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never used to be this paranoid.”

Compassion moistened Booker’s eyes, and resting his hands on Tom’s shoulders, he placed his lips against his lover’s forehead and kissed him tenderly. “Forget it. We’re both acting kinda weird. I s’pose it’s the stress.”

Grateful for the understanding, Tom visibly relaxed. “Yeah, I guess.”

With a glance at the clock, Booker exhaled a weary sigh. “It’s getting late. I’ll take the couch, and you can have the bed. Okay?”

A shy smile graced Tom’s lips. “Or we could both share the bed,” he ventured softly. “I mean, if you want to, even though we can’t… well, you know.”

A tempestuous fire burned deep in Booker’s dark eyes, but he quickly doused the amorous flame. Before he dived head first into a sexual relationship with Tom, he wanted him to discuss the pros and cons of not taking his SSRI medication with a doctor. If they were going to commit to each other, he wanted to do it right, and as much as he longed to make love to the man standing before him, he was insightful enough to know the timing wasn’t right. He needed to remain patient and let Tom set the pace, otherwise, he risked causing him more emotional pain, and he would never forgive himself if his impetuousness ruined their relationship before it had even begun.

Therefore, he pushed all thoughts of sex from his mind and became the friend Tom needed him to be. “Sure, baby,” he smiled lovingly, and taking the young officer by the hand, he led him into the bedroom and closed the door.


	40. Inveigled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Booker’s face registered shock. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he cried. “I love you, Tommy, not Jorge! You make me happy, not him! What do I have to do to make you believe me? All I want to do is warn Jorge, not fucking sleep with him!”_
> 
> _The passion behind Booker’s outburst immediately had Tom questioning the validity of his self-doubt, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. Despite what most people thought, Booker was fiercely loyal and protective, and he should have known the young officer would shield Jorge from Holland in whatever way possible. It had nothing to do with love, Jorge was Dennis’ friend, and the young officer had an obligation to warn him of Holland’s intentions._
> 
> _Keeping his gaze firmly on the floor, he shuffled uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he apologized softly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never used to be this paranoid.”_
> 
> _Compassion moistened Booker’s eyes, and resting his hands on Tom’s shoulders, he placed his lips against his lover’s forehead and kissed him tenderly. “Forget it. We’re both acting kinda weird. I s’pose it’s the stress.”_
> 
> _Grateful for the understanding, Tom visibly relaxed. “Yeah, I guess.”_
> 
> _With a glance at the clock, Booker exhaled a weary sigh. “It’s getting late. I’ll take the couch, and you can have the bed. Okay?”_
> 
> _A shy smile graced Tom’s lips. “Or we could both share the bed,” he ventured softly. “I mean, if you want to, even though we can’t… well, you know.”_
> 
> _A tempestuous fire burned deep in Booker’s dark eyes, but he quickly doused the amorous flame. Before he dived head first into a sexual relationship with Tom, he wanted him to discuss the pros and cons of not taking his SSRI medication with a doctor. If they were going to commit to each other, he wanted to do it right, and as much as he longed to make love to the man standing before him, he was insightful enough to know the timing wasn’t right. He needed to remain patient and let Tom set the pace, otherwise, he risked causing him more emotional pain, and he would never forgive himself if his impetuousness ruined their relationship before it had even begun._
> 
> _Therefore, he pushed all thoughts of sex from his mind and became the friend Tom needed him to be. “Sure, baby,” he smiled lovingly, and taking the young officer by the hand, he led him into the bedroom and closed the door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35161139303/in/dateposted-public/)

**Twelve days later**

Booker stood with his hands braced against the tiled wall of the shower cubicle, his head bent low so the spray of hot water cascaded over his shoulders, soothing the stiffness in his muscles. He had spent the day lugging boxes of files from the Chapel’s basement to the parking lot, where he had loaded them into a waiting van ready for transport to the central records office. Despite his powerful physique, the work proved physically demanding, and by the end of the day, the dark-haired officer found himself tired, sore, and ready to punch someone if they dared look at him the wrong way. While he recognized he had eagerly accepted the backbreaking task so as to avoid his fellow officers, every time he puffed up the stairs, his biceps straining from the weight of the files, he had found it increasingly difficult to ignore Penhall’s softly spoken taunts. The cleverly disguised harassment was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back, and with each labored step, he had fantasized about drilling his fist into the vexatious officer’s smirking face. But as much as he would have enjoyed the thrill of breaking Doug’s nose, a little voice inside his head cautioned him against doing anything that would cause his lover unnecessary stress and heartache. Therefore, through sheer will and his love for Tom, he had managed to grin through the humiliation and ignore the provocation, all the while convincing himself it proved he was the better man.

When the day had finally drawn to a close, he had silently congratulated himself for successfully surviving hours of mental and physical suffering without losing his cool. It hadn’t been easy, and he had looked forward to putting the day behind him and spending some quality time with Tom. But when he arrived home, he had discovered his apartment shrouded in darkness and no sign of his lover. Disappointment had immediately dampened his already dark mood, and it was then he had decided a hot shower followed by copious amounts of beer were exactly what he needed to shed the stench of humiliation clinging to his sweat drenched body. So, with his mind made up, he had stripped naked and leaving his discarded clothing in a pile on the floor, he had walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

But after spending thirty minutes under the therapeutic spray of warm water, his appetite for alcohol had disappeared, along with his bad mood. Although tired, he made the decision to skip the beer-binge and settle for a relaxing night in front of the TV while enjoying takeout from his favorite Chinese restaurant. It didn’t exactly fit with his _tough guy_ persona, but he didn’t want Tom to come home to find him passed out on the couch, drooling onto one of the mismatched cushions. His friendship with Tom was still new, and while their level of intimacy hadn’t progressed past kissing, he wanted the honeymoon period to last for as long as possible. With Tom now off his medication, it was only a matter of time before their relationship blossomed into something more than roommates, and he did not want Hanson to think of him as a boorish drunk. There was a faint scent of promise in the air, and he had waited far too long to ruin his chances of romance with the man he had secretly idolized since the day they had met. Tom deserved the very best, and he wanted to bestow upon him the security of a life filled with love, peace, and honesty. 

In the words of Paul Weller, he just wanted Tom to feel happy until the end of time.

When the water turned tepid, he pushed his dripping hair from his eyes and turned off the faucets. Stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom, he quickly dried off and wrapping a clean towel around his waist, he walked out into the living room. 

At first, he didn’t notice the light filtering through the partially open bedroom door, but when he heard a window closing, he realized Tom was home, and a smile curved the corners of his lips. Now he wouldn’t have to spend the night on his own, and pleased with the turn of events, he grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator and sauntered into the bedroom. But he pulled up short when he saw who was standing in the middle of the room.

“What the hell!”

The lamp on the nightstand illuminated Jorge’s naked body, the broad expanse of his chest and the defined ridges of his abdomen clearly outlined in the soft light. Below, nestled in a shock of dark pubic hair, the evidence of his arousal stood proudly erect, the tip already glistening with a pearl of pre-cum.

With a coy smile, the Latino tilted his head seductively and touched his erection. His fingers skillfully toyed with his cock, the erotic display both provocative and enticing. He was the puppeteer, carefully drawing Booker in with each loving touch, and the sight of his long, talented fingers gliding over his erect shaft had the desired effect. A fire erupted in Booker’s groin, and the young officer envisioned wrapping his lips around the Latino’s throbbing member and sucking him dry. The brazen display of self-gratification had a bewitching effect, and his tongue darted out, the moist tip lasciviously caressing his upper lip. His body started to react to the visual stimulation, the salacious sight swelling his cock until it strained against his towel, forming a noticeable bulge. He knew it was wrong, he knew he was betraying Tom by having such erogenous thoughts, but his cock had a mind of its own, continuing to harden under the allure of Jorge’s physical perfection. It was an impossible scenario; his body screamed yes, but his mind screamed no. He was trapped in a battle of wills, and his body appeared to be winning.

With no other defense at hand, he screwed his eyes closed, shutting out the vision. A moment later, a soft, alluring voice cut through the silence. “Don’t you want to play with me, Dennis? Don’t you want to make me come?”

But if Jorge thought his seductive lilt could win back the man he loved, he was sadly mistaken. The teasing tone was not the voice of Booker’s dreams, and with the hypnotic spell now broken, the young officer’s eyes flew open. “NO!” he yelled, his eyes flashing with fury. “I don’t! How _dare_ you break into my apartment, I could arrest you for trespass, you fuckin’ punk! After _everything_ I’ve done for you, why would you do this? _Why?”_

Tears glistened in Jorge’s eyes, the opaque droplets clinging to his long lashes. “Because I love you.”

Booker placed the unopened bottles of beer on the bureau, and grabbing his robe from the back of the bedroom door, he covered his arousal within the soft folds of the terry cloth. “Get dressed,” he commanded stiffly. “We need to talk.”

A fractious pout formed on Jorge’s lips, the tears in his eyes magically vanishing along with his well-practiced air of vulnerability. “About what?” 

The discernible change in the Latino’s nature immediately made Booker wary. Despite his strong emotional attachment to the young man standing before him, he was beginning to realize things were not always as they seemed. It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that Jorge was a master manipulator, most likely due to his long years of incarceration. The fundamental motive of all living creatures is survival. Through sheer necessity and the deeply rooted inhibitor of risk: self-preservation, he had developed certain coping mechanisms to withstand the daily abuse. It wasn’t his fault, he was a product of his environment, a helpless pawn controlled by Holland’s cruel hand, and in all probability, if he had lived a life free from exploitation, he would not be the man he was today. There was no denying the fact that life had dealt him a bad hand, but that did not mean he could not rise above the adversity and emerge victoriously. Holland was out of his life, and with some gentle guidance, he could become the man God created him to be; he just needed to shake free from the shackles of his human bondage and believe in himself. Otherwise, he was destined to live a life of a slave, forever bound by the will of others.

“Well?” Jorge muttered moodily when Dennis did not answer his question. “What’s so important you’d rather talk than have sex?”

Determined not to lose his temper, Booker inhaled deeply through his nose and counted slowly to ten before exhaling the calming breath out through his pursed lips. “First, I want you to get dressed,” he instructed coolly, his gaze focusing on Jorge’s dark eyes. “Then we talk. Got it?”

The Latino sighed heavily, his enticing pout sharpening the curve of his full lips. “Whatever,” he mumbled, and picking his clothes up off the floor, he turned away and started to dress.

**

**Two hours later**

When Tom walked into the apartment, he found Booker sitting in the dimly lit living room, a large tumbler of whiskey in his hand. Closing the door behind him, he approached the dark-haired officer, and sitting down next to him, he took hold of his hand and squeezed his cold fingers. “Bad day?”

Booker lifted his head and looked at Tom through tired, red-rimmed eyes. “I found Jorge in my bedroom. He’d climbed up the fire-escape and… Shit, Tom, he was _naked!_ He was fucking naked and erect, and wanting to have sex and…” 

His voice petered out, and lowering his gaze to the floor, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “He just won’t take no for an answer.”

Tom released Booker’s fingers from his grasp and standing up, he took a step back and wrapped his arms protectively around his torso. “Did you touch him?” he asked, his voice stiff with emotion. 

Startled, Booker’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing wildly. “What? No! Jesus, Tommy, how can you ask me that?”

“But you were tempted,” Tom stated flatly. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Booker shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face flushing red. “He caught me by surprise,” he offered lamely.

“And he made you horny,” Tom continued, a hint of distress rising in his voice. “You looked at him, and you _wanted_ to have sex. Isn’t that right?”

“I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH _YOU!”_ Booker exclaimed loudly, and slamming his glass down on the table, he jumped to his feet and grabbed Tom roughly by the upper arms, his nails digging painfully into the exposed flesh. “I DIDN’T INVITE HIM HERE! I DIDN’T ASK TO SEE HIM NAKED! SO WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU BLAMING ME?”

Unmoved by his friend’s outburst, Tom yanked free from the brutal hold. “And what if I can’t give you what you want?” he muttered, his fingers rubbing at the red marks on his arms. “Then what?”

“What do you mean?” Booker asked, confusion knitting his brow. “I love you, Tommy, nothing else matters.”

“Doesn’t it?” Tom asked softly, his dark eyes filling with sadness. “You say that now, but how will you feel in three months? Six months? A year? What if I can’t ever get an erection? Will you still love me then?”

Awareness came to Booker, not in a blinding flash of light, but in a slow dawning of understanding, and placing his hands on Tom’s shoulders, he looked him straight in the eyes. “What brought this on? I thought Doctor Ross put your mind at rest about that. You’re no longer taking your SSRIs, so it shouldn’t take long—”

“Doctor Ross recommended I speak to a psychologist,” Tom blurted out.

A cloud darkened Booker’s eyes. “When did he say that? I was with you at your last appointment.”

Embarrassment brought a flush to Tom’s cheeks, and he quickly averted his gaze to the floor. “I know we agreed we’d talk to Doctor Ross together about my recovery, but I’ve been off my meds for a week and a half, and nothing’s changed. I was only on the SSRIs for a few days, so the drug is out of my system, but I still can’t…” 

He hesitated for a moment, before continuing, his voice steadily rising as his emotional pain spilled forth in a rush of words. “Jesus, Dennis, I was scared the drugs would make me impotent, but I was deluding myself. I was _already_ fucking impotent, and that means it’s all in my head! Don’t you get it? I can’t get it up because I’m scared to have sex! I can’t even get a hard-on when I masturbate! I’m dead below the waist because of what those fucking assholes did to me! So tell me again how it doesn’t matter because it fucking well does, it matters a lot! Without sex, I’m nothing more than your fucking roommate, and one day, you’re gonna wake up and realize you wasted your time on someone who can never give you what you want!”

Without batting an eye, Booker continued to study Tom’s flushed face. “Have you finished?” he asked quietly.

Taken aback by his friend’s serene tone, Tom faltered. “I-I...” he began, but when Booker held up his hand, he immediately stopped talking, and lowering his eyes to the floor, he waited for his friend to speak.

Several long seconds passed before Booker finally broke the silence. “You’ve had your say, now it’s my turn. You were raped, Tom.”

The calmly delivered statement was not what Tom expected, and lifting his head, he stared at his friend in annoyance. “Congratulations, _Sherlock,”_ he snapped. “Do you think I don’t know that? I was there, remember? I fucking lived it.”

“Exactly,” Booker replied softly. “You survived a horrific assault, and you need time to heal. Not just physically, but emotionally. And despite what you may think, I don’t give a rat’s ass _how_ long it takes, so stop making up bullshit excuses as to why we shouldn’t be together and let’s get on with living our lives. Okay?”

Tom’s shocked expression slowly transformed into an embarrassed smile, and shoving his hands in his pockets, he shuffled uncomfortably. “Do you _really_ mean that?” he asked, not daring to believe.

A long breath of frustration exhaled from between Booker’s lips. “Jesus, Tom, how many times do I—”

“Okay, okay!” Tom conceded quickly. “I believe you.”

“Good,” Booker replied, a tight smile straining his lips. “And just so you know, I warned Jorge about Holland, so there’s no reason for me to see him again.”

Although they were the words Tom wanted to hear, they did not make him happy. Jorge had suffered too, and as difficult as it was for him to admit it, the young Latino deserved Booker’s friendship just as much as he did. It was a defining moment in his recovery because, for the first time since his assault, he understood the true nature of his relationship with Dennis. Sex was only a physical aspect, their emotional attachment ran much deeper, and he knew in his heart he could trust his friend implicitly. He just wished he’d figured it out sooner because he was tired of fighting, but more importantly, he was tired of living his life in fear.

With a fiery determination to make things right burning in his soul, he took hold of Booker’s hand and squeezed his fingers. “No. You should stay in contact with him, he needs you.”

Uncertainty puckered Booker’s brow. “Are you sure? ‘Cause I don’t—”

“I’m sure,” Tom replied with a smile, but little did he know, his magnanimous gesture was about to shatter both their worlds yet again.

**

Jorge stood on the sidewalk, the glow of the streetlight shining directly on his upturned face. His gaze remained fixed on Booker’s apartment window, and he observed with interest the two shadowy figures moving around the room. From his vantage point behind a tree, he had watched Tom arrive home, and it had taken all his self-control not to confront him and give a blow-by-blow account of what had taken place just hours before. Although Booker had spurned his advances, he had seen the lust shimmering in his eyes, and he wanted Tom to know he wielded a certain power over the dark-haired officer. It was petty, but his emotional maturity was well below his years, and he wanted to lash out and hurt the man who had stolen his Dennis because every day without his lover was another day he lived in hell.

With his attention focused on the apartment above, the young Latino did not see the shadowy figure approach until a soft voice broke the silence. “Hello, my beautiful boy.”

Heat flared in Jorge’s groin, the arousal bringing a smile to his lips, and turning around, he greeted his long, lost friend. “Hello, Mister Holland.”


	41. Breathing New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Jorge stood on the sidewalk, the glow of the streetlight shining directly on his upturned face. His gaze remained fixed on Booker’s apartment window, and he observed with interest the two shadowy figures moving around the room. From his vantage point behind a tree, he had watched Tom arrive home, and it had taken all his self-control not to confront him and give a blow-by-blow account of what had taken place just hours before. Although Booker had spurned his advances, he had seen the lust shimmering in his eyes, and he wanted Tom to know he wielded a certain power over the dark-haired officer. It was petty, but his emotional maturity was well below his years, and he wanted to lash out and hurt the man who had stolen his Dennis because every day without his lover was another day he lived in hell._
> 
> _With his attention focused on the apartment above, the young Latino did not see the shadowy figure approach until a soft voice broke the silence. “Hello, my beautiful boy.”_
> 
> _Heat flared in Jorge’s groin, the arousal bringing a smile to his lips, and turning around, he greeted his long, lost friend. “Hello, Mister Holland.”_

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35929825556/in/dateposted-public/)>

It wasn’t the soft, ethereal glow of dawn’s early light peeping through the ill-fitting curtains that gently lured Tom from a restless night’s sleep. It wasn’t the promise of a new day, free from the nightmares that still plagued his tortured mind or the pleasing chirrup of the house sparrows greeting the sun’s rays with their morning song of joy. It was something more physical, something _visceral,_ an inherent perception of a long-forgotten pleasure slowly rising from within.

His body was awakening.

A low moan tumbled from his lips, and rolling over, he pressed against the muscular body lying beside him. With his mind suspended between sleep and consciousness, his movements were intuitive, and instinctively seeking friction, he ground his growing erection against Booker’s firm buttocks, the primordial impulse fueling his urges. The tactual contact stimulated his sensitive organ, kicking his libido into high gear, and the rhythmic fluidity of his movements quickly transformed into manic thrusting, the bed rocking violently with the force of his body’s propulsion. It was the sensory gratification of a long forgotten pleasure, but this time, it wasn't a dream, this time, it was a reality.

Abruptly pulled from a peaceful sleep by the frantic motion, Booker’s eyes flew open. His first thought was his friend was having a nightmare, but when he recognized the unmistakable hardness of Tom’s cock pressing against him, the corners of his lips curved into a boyish grin. His prayers had been answered; his baby was cured.

Blood flowed through the arteries of his cock, instantly swelling his shaft into hardness. While he knew he needed to exercise restraint and hand over control so his lover could set the pace, his body quivered with anticipation. It was the moment he had dreamed about since his lover’s assault. The time had come to show Tom—through tender touches and loving kisses—that gay sex wasn’t about violence or a need for power, it could be and should be all about love.

He would be his guiding light.

With the sensation of Tom’s erection rubbing against his backside becoming too tantalizing to ignore any longer, Booker rolled over, and pressing his lips against the delicate curve of his lover’s ear, he kissed the sleep-warm flesh. “Wake up, beautiful.”

Whether it was the loss of physical stimulus or the soft, verbal command, Tom’s mind jerked into full consciousness, and opening his eyes, he blinked several times before focusing on Booker’s grinning face. “Huh?”

Booker’s heart dipped momentarily before skipping into a faster rhythm. The innocence behind Tom’s bewildered gaze had his soul bursting with such an intensity of love, the pulsating vibration tingled throughout his entire body. But before he could verbally express the depth of feeling, he watched with growing adoration as Tom’s brain registered his body’s physical awakening. The young officer’s eyes grew wide and with a shaky hand, he pulled back the covers and gazed in wonder at the sight of his burgeoning erection straining against the fabric of his boxers. “Jesus,” he whispered.

Flecks of gold flickered in the depths of Booker’s dark irises, the desirous flame radiating from his arousal within. He longed to take Tom’s impressive erection in his hand and explore the rigid contours of the hardened flesh, to commit the conformation of his phallus to memory as only a lover would do. But he was wary of spooking the young officer, of coming on too strong. If their amorous play progressed, it would be the first time since their forced oral copulation that they would both be willing and able to engage in a physical, sexual act. While it was a significant moment in their relationship, he was mindful of respecting Tom’s boundaries. His lover’s only experience of gay sex was one tainted with blood, violence, and humiliation, and the last thing he wanted was to pressure him into participating in something he didn’t feel comfortable doing.

Therefore, he reined in his raging hormones, and cupping Tom’s face in the palm of his hand, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the flesh of the young officer’s enticing pout. Deepening the kiss, he sucked provocatively at his lover’s tongue and lips, before trailing a wet path down to the hollow of his throat. “Do you want me to touch you, baby?” he murmured, his mouth nipping and sucking at the firm, inviting flesh. “Do you want me to make you come?”

A surge of adrenaline rushed through Tom’s body, bringing forth a moment of panic. His rape, along with the indignity of his impotence had deadened his desires for six long weeks, and he craved the caress of a tender, loving hand. He wanted to feel alive, to reach the dizzying heights of orgasm without the pain of humiliation. But the memory of his assault was still so raw, so painfully _emasculating,_ he briefly wondered if he would ever again know the intimate touch of another human being. However, it did not take long for the urgent throbbing in his groin to override his uncertainty. It was now or never, and pushing aside his reservations, he bit down on his lower lip and responded with a shy, almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Yes.”

The young officer’s innocent, yet seductive demeanor sent another rush of blood to Booker’s cock. “Lie back,” the dark-haired officer instructed, his voice breathless with longing. 

Tom rolled onto his back, his large, trusting eyes immediately focusing on his lover’s handsome face. He couldn’t deny it, he _was_ nervous, but Booker had proved himself a gentle, caring friend, and having witnessed the horror of his assault, he had faith he would treat him with dignity and understanding without reinforcing his feelings of inadequacy.

Smiling reassuringly, Booker sat up and pushed away the covers. “Can I take off your boxers?” he asked softly.

Again, Tom nodded his consent, this time, a little more enthusiastically. Having received his friend’s permission, Booker slid his fingers under the elastic waistband of Tom's shorts and slowly removed the cotton material, revealing his lover’s magnificent erection. His own, noticeable bulge strained at his boxers, but he ignored his desire for stimulation and licking his lips appreciatively, he took pleasure in the sight of the pearl of pre-cum bubbling from the young officer's slit. The urge to lean forward and lick the saliferous fluid from the tip of Tom’s smooth cockhead was almost his undoing, but with dogged determination, he ignored his own selfish needs and concentrated on making his lover comfortable. Moving in a slow, non-threatening manner, he carefully straddled Tom’s lower legs, and sitting back on his haunches, he reached out a hand and stroked an affectionate finger over his lover’s chiseled cheekbone. “We can stop any time. Okay?”

Although appreciative of Booker’s thoughtful and loving consideration, Tom was past the point of stopping, and without breaking eye contact, he took hold of his lover’s hand and guided it down between his legs. “Touch me,” he whispered, his chest rapidly rising and falling with each short, ragged, intake of breath. “I want you to touch me.”

“Oh, Tommy,” Booker breathed, his eyes dancing with a hunger born from the deep, passionate love he felt for the man lying beneath him. “You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are.”

A blush of embarrassment colored Tom’s cheeks, and with his softly parted lips and dark, doe-like eyes, he was a picture of erotic beauty, a living, breathing canvas of sexually charged energy. Never before had Booker seen anyone look more attractive, more sensual, and trailing the tip of his finger along the ridge of Tom's penile raphe, he slowly teased him with each feathery stroke. But the young officer wasn’t in the mood for foreplay, he’d waited for six, long, painful weeks to obtain an erection, and the only thing on his mind was getting off.

With no inhibitions left to lose, he grabbed hold of Booker’s wrist, and wrapping his lover's long fingers around his shaft, he gently coaxed the warm hand up and down, his rhythm jerky and full of desperation. It was a silent plea, but there was no mistaking his objective; he wanted to come, and he wanted to come _now._

Although Booker would have loved to take his time and explore every inch of Tom’s taut, naked body, he understood the urgency behind his lover’s actions. There was no doubt in his mind the young officer was terrified of losing his erection before he reached orgasm, and the concern was justified. Just because Tom was hard didn’t mean he would ejaculate, and Booker knew if he failed to climax, it would confirm his feelings of inadequacy, which in turn would reinforce his perceived emasculation, adding to his depression. 

But there was no way in hell Booker was going to let that happen. He was on a mission, and not only was he going to give Tom back his life, but his body as well. He was determined to make him whole again.

With no need for further persuasion, he formed a fist around Tom’s cock and gently twisting his hand around the base, he slid his fingers up toward the tip. When he reached the enticing, plum-shaped head, he ran his thumb over the smooth flesh, coating the pad with the viscous fluid leaking from the tip. Using the juices as lubrication, he twisted and twirled his hand up and down Tom's erect shaft, his fingers gently squeezing and releasing in a slow, tugging motion. “Do you like that, baby?” he murmured, his free hand lightly fondling Tom’s balls. “Do you like me touching you.”

Tom squirmed, his hips rocking upwards, selfishly demanding more. “Faster,” he moaned. “Jerk me faster.”

Always willing to please, Booker abandoned his technique and resorted to the basics. With no need for finesse, he pumped his fist over Tom’s erection, alternating pressure as his hand glided over the thick, swollen shaft, his actions bringing his lover closer to orgasm with each skillful stroke. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Tom panted, his trembling body flexing backward. Every nerve tingled with the impatient desire for sexual release, and for the first time in weeks, he felt truly alive. It was a defining moment in his healing, and unable to control the desperation rising from within, his hips shot forward, the jerking motion thrusting his cock deeper into Booker’s willing hand. “Oh God oh God oh God…”

The tip of Booker’s erection peeped through the fly of his boxers, the sleek cockhead blushing a deep shade of pink. He longed to ask Tom to touch him, to beg him to run his slim, artistic fingers over his throbbing shaft, but he pushed the narcissistic thought away. Today it was about Tom, today it was about restoring his lover’s confidence and banishing the self-doubt that continued to shroud him in darkness. It was all about a new beginning, a new dawn free from humiliation and pain. 

It was the birth of their relationship.

As endorphins and oxytocin rushed into his bloodstream, Tom could feel his orgasm rising, and a full body tremor ran from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. His fingers grabbed handfuls of the crumpled bed sheet beneath him, the thrill of Booker’s touch igniting a fire in the pit of his stomach. An electric charge coursed through his body, heating his flesh in a warm, sensual glow, and his toes curled in anticipation for what was to come. “Oh, Dennis,” he moaned, his perfect bowed lips forming an enticing pink O, the erotic pout sending a shiver of delight down Booker’s spine. “I’m close, I’m so fucking close.” 

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Booker encouraged, his dark eyes shining brightly as his hand continued to pleasure Tom with swift, measured strokes. “Tell me what you need to make you come.”

Tom’s body suddenly spasmed, his torso arching backward. “YOU!” he cried. “I need _YOU!”_ And with one final, desperate thrust, his body shuddered violently, and he climaxed forcefully over Booker’s fingers.

The unexpected admission sent a bolt of pure sexual energy through Booker's body. There was no warning, the emotional charge hit him hard and fast, and with a low, guttural moan, his body stiffened, and he ejaculated without ever having touched his cock.

Shocked and surprised by the abruptness of his orgasm, he gazed open-mouthed at the wet patch on the front of his boxers, his lover temporarily forgotten. But when warm fingers grasped his hand, he looked up, and his face relaxed into a smile. “Shit,” he chuckled.

Tom’s finger traced a pattern over the stained material of Booker’s boxers. “I must have magic powers,” he joked, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

Flopping onto his back, the dark-haired officer gathered his lover into his arms. “Cheeky,” he admonished softly, his lips trailing over Tom’s jawline before nuzzling into the curve of his neck. “You weren’t exactly _Mister Restraint.”_

A shadow passed over Tom’s face. “No, I wasn’t,” he replied quietly, “I was scared I wouldn’t—”

“Shhh,” Booker murmured, his mouth pressing against the warmth of Tom’s flesh. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

A surge of emotion brought a lump to Tom’s throat, but he quickly swallowed it down, not wanting to spoil the moment. “Thanks to you,” he acknowledged quietly, and pushing up onto his elbow, he fixed his gaze on Booker’s sated eyes. “How can I ever make it up to you?”

An impish smile tilted the corners of the dark-haired officer’s lips, and pulling Tom toward him, he kissed him tenderly. “Oh, I’ll think of something,” he teased, his tongue trailing over his lover’s seductive pout. “This is just the beginning, baby, we have our whole lives to get to know each other better, if you know what I mean.”

With a contented sigh, Tom lowered his head onto Booker’s smooth chest, and closing his eyes, he allowed the steady beat of his lover’s heart to lull him toward sleep. He could not remember a time when he’d felt more at peace, and as he drifted into unconsciousness, he imagined what it would feel like to abandon all fear and surrender his body completely.


	42. Don’t You Forget about Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom’s body suddenly spasmed, his torso arching backward. “YOU!” he cried. “I need YOU!” And with one final, desperate thrust, his body shuddered violently, and he climaxed forcefully over Booker’s fingers._
> 
> _The unexpected admission sent a bolt of pure sexual energy through Booker's body. There was no warning, the emotional charge hit him hard and fast, and with a low, guttural moan, his body stiffened, and he ejaculated without ever having touched his cock._
> 
> _Shocked and surprised by the abruptness of his orgasm, he gazed open-mouthed at the wet patch on the front of his boxers, his lover temporarily forgotten. But when warm fingers grasped his hand, he looked up, and his face relaxed into a smile. “Shit,” he chuckled._
> 
> _Tom’s finger traced a pattern over the stained material of Booker’s boxers. “I must have magic powers,” he joked, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement._
> 
> _Flopping onto his back, the dark-haired officer gathered his lover into his arms. “Cheeky,” he admonished softly, his lips trailing over Tom’s jawline before nuzzling into the curve of his neck. “You weren’t exactly Mister Restraint.”_
> 
> _A shadow passed over Tom’s face. “No, I wasn’t,” he replied quietly, “I was scared I wouldn’t—”_
> 
> _“Shhh,” Booker murmured, his mouth pressing against the warmth of Tom’s flesh. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”_
> 
> _A surge of emotion brought a lump to Tom’s throat, but he quickly swallowed it down, not wanting to spoil the moment. “Thanks to you,” he acknowledged quietly, and pushing up onto his elbow, he fixed his gaze on Booker’s sated eyes. “How can I ever make it up to you?”_
> 
> _An impish smile tilted the corners of the dark-haired officer’s lips, and pulling Tom toward him, he kissed him tenderly. “Oh, I’ll think of something,” he teased, his tongue trailing over his lover’s seductive pout. “This is just the beginning, baby, we have our whole lives to get to know each other better, if you know what I mean.”_
> 
> _With a contented sigh, Tom lowered his head onto Booker’s smooth chest, and closing his eyes, he allowed the steady beat of his lover’s heart to lull him toward sleep. He could not remember a time when he’d felt more at peace, and as he drifted into unconsciousness, he imagined what it would feel like to abandon all fear and surrender his body completely._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35838427061/in/dateposted-public/)

Relaxed and content in the knowledge his body was once again his own, Tom slept for another two hours. It was a peaceful, dreamless sleep, but eventually, the heat of the sun’s rays dancing over his upturned face roused him from his slumber and rolling over, he sought comfort from his lover’s muscular body. However, when his searching hands found nothing but mattress, he opened his eyes and stared at the empty side of the bed. Disappointment pushed his lower lip into a sulky pout. Now his body was awake and willing, he had hoped for another round of play. But he was determined not to let his discontent spoil what was arguably one of the best days of his life, and with a loud, exaggerated yawn, he stretched out his limbs and slowly considered the pros and cons of leaving the protective warmth of the rumpled bed. Several minutes of serious contemplation passed, but the insistent pressure inside his bladder eventually made his decision easy, and with a weary groan, he climbed from the bed.

Standing naked in the middle of the room, he considered his options. Although he had shared a magical, intimate moment with Booker just hours before, he quickly came to the conclusion he did not feel comfortable walking out of the bedroom with his pride and joy swinging in the breeze. However, with his urge to pee now becoming an issue, he did not have time to sort through the jumble of clothing lying in a heap on the floor. So rather than risk the embarrassment of losing control of his bladder for a second time, he grabbed the first items at hand, and quickly dressing in boxers, tee shirt, and hoodie, he hurried from the room and into the bathroom next door.

After relieving his aching bladder, he stood at the sink and washed his hands and face. When he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, he paused for a moment and studied the tiny droplets of water adorning his pale skin. For the first time in weeks, his face did not wear the expression of a man condemned to a lifetime of misery. Instead, there was a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes, the shimmering radiance helping to extenuate the dark shadows marring the delicate skin beneath. He had wrongly believed the Tom Hanson of old had died on the basement floor of the Pi Tau frat house, but he now realized his spirit had only been sleeping, waiting for his prince to breathe new life into his broken body and awaken him from his nightmare. The sentimentality behind the metaphor immediately had him blushing, and grabbing a towel, he quickly buried his face in the folds of fabric under the pretense of wiping the droplets of water from his dripping skin. But no amount of posturing could banish the thought from his mind. Booker _was_ his knight in shining armor, and he would forever remain indebted to the dark-haired officer for freeing him from the torment of his own damaged mind.

A bashful approximation of a smile played over his lips, and eager to see the man who had delivered him from evil, he hung the towel back on the railing and rechecked his reflection in the mirror. After deciding his morning breath was not an attractive way to greet his lover, he quickly brushed his teeth. He was surprised by the level of nervousness coursing through his veins, and he found a way to stall for several moments longer by obsessively running his shaky fingers through his sleep-tousled hair. The reason behind his anxiety was unclear, but he figured part of his hesitancy was the fear of rejection. His encounter with Booker was his first consensual homosexual act, and he was still getting his mind around the whole experience. While he did not doubt his love for the dark-haired officer, he was still coming to terms with the depth of feeling and his willingness to _switch sides._ He had never felt an attraction toward another man before, and yet, there he was, standing in a bathroom, prettying himself up for the man he now considered his lover. It was a surreal, almost spiritualistic awareness that was both exhilarating and vaguely disconcerting. He understood why his life had changed so dramatically after his rape, but what still confused him was how the man he once hated could make his heart flutter with a single look. The shift in attitude was baffling, yet he did not question its authenticity. He knew his own mind, he was in love with Dennis Booker, and that was all that mattered.

Once satisfied with his appearance, he took a deep, calming breath and wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his hoodie, he walked into the living room.

Booker sat on the sofa, an empty cup of coffee cradled in his hands. His gaze was vacant, his slumped shoulders adding an aura of depression to his demeanor, and the image sent a shiver of panic down Tom’s spine. It was an expression he knew well, the dark-haired officer was deep in thought, lost in the complex labyrinth of his mind, and he briefly considered retiring back to the bedroom. But his need for comfort was too overwhelming, and seeking contact, he walked over to the sofa and sat down. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Startled back to reality, Booker turned his head and stared at Tom, his gaze troubled. “Huh?”

The pained expression on his lover’s face did nothing to help ease Tom’s anxiety, and he shifted nervously in his seat. “Um, is something wrong?” he asked quietly, the hammering of his heart sending blood whooshing through his ears. “You seem kinda… _distracted.”_

“Do I?” Booker responded in a flat voice, his eyes not quite meeting Tom’s worried gaze. “I guess I have a few things on my mind.”

Unsettled by Booker’s evasive attitude, Tom wiped a shaky hand across his mouth. “Like?” 

The hint of panic coloring Tom’s softly delivered question was not lost on Booker, and leaning back against the cushions, he exhaled a weary sigh. “Something you said is kinda bugging me.”

Taken aback by the comment, a look of uncertainty crept over Tom’s face. He did not remember having any deep and meaningful conversations with Dennis before _or_ after their amorous play, but in all honesty, his memory was a little hazy. The carnal imprint on his body was still very much alive, the tingling of his flesh an erotic reminder of his lover’s intimate touch. But his cognitive memory was less detailed, and sitting forward, he focused on the dark-haired officer’s strained expression. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to narrow it down. What _exactly_ did I say that’s got you acting so weird?”

The tightening of Booker’s jaw revealed the extent of his internal struggle. “You said you needed me,” he muttered by way of explanation.

Although somewhat confused by the statement, the rigidity in Tom’s body relaxed, and he breathed a palpable sigh of relief. “Jesus, Dennis, of course I do. But why has that upset you?”

For Booker, Tom’s heartfelt declaration did little to lighten his mood, and chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, he attempted to voice his concerns. _“Needing_ someone is different from wanting them, Tom. Do you need me or want me?”

Surprised by his lover’s level of insecurity, Tom tilted his head and flashed a beguiling smile. “Do you _need_ me to _show_ you how much I _want_ you?” he teased softly, his eyelashes fluttering flirtatiously. “Because I could go another—”

“Jorge needed me too,” Booker replied absently, his lover’s seductive words barely registering in his mind. “But I didn’t do enough.”

Tom’s smile froze before transforming into an angry scowl, and crossing his arms defensively across his chest, he threw his lover a resentful look. “What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

The hurt in the young officer’s voice penetrated through Booker’s thoughts, bringing him back to reality with a thump, and shaking his head, his glazed eyes regained focus. “Huh?”

This time, the monosyllabic interjection grated on Tom’s already frazzled nerves, and unable to disguise his jealousy, a trembling fury rose from within, releasing in a wave of angry rhetoric. “What more should you have done, Booker? Slept with him when he broke into your apartment? Oh, hey, here’s an idea, maybe we can have a threesome, and that way, you won’t have to feel guilty about not fucking him while you’re pretending to be in love with me!”

Booker blinked several times, his expression perplexed. “Huh?”

Unable to contain his chagrin any longer, Tom jumped to his feet, his mouth twisting in anger. “STOP SAYING THAT!” he screamed, all his hurt and disappointment bubbling forth in a torrent of frustration. “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO RUIN EVERYTHING? WHY?”

“Ruin?” Booker queried, two deep lines furrowing his brow. “Tom, I don’t understand. Why are you yelling at me?”

“Because I trusted you!” Tom cried, his dark, expressive eyes a kaleidoscope of raw emotion. “I trusted you to be my first, and now you’re talking about him! You’re _always_ talking about _HIM!”_

When a glimmer of awareness slowly dawned, Booker’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What? No! Tommy, that’s not what I meant!”

“Isn’t it?” Tom shot back angrily. “Well, you know what, _Booker?_ I think you’re lying. I think you miss fucking him, and you realize you made the wrong choice because what we have may _never_ be that intimate. How’s that for an observation, huh?”

With his patience pushed to the limit, Booker finally unleashed his temper, and slamming his empty cup on the coffee table, he stood up, his eyes locked directly on his lover’s furious face. “When did you become so fucking paranoid?” he seethed through gritted teeth. “Jorge _did_ need me. In case you’ve forgotten, he was stuck in a house with a sexual sadist. But when I said I hadn’t done enough, I meant Holland is still out there, preying on innocent teenagers when I should have stopped him. I should have fucking stopped him! And if we’re gonna start throwing around accusations, I don’t think you _do_ want me. I think it’s all about need and one day you’re gonna realize that and walk out the fucking door. So how’s _that_ for an observation you sniveling piece of shit! _HUH?”_

He emphasized the final word by jabbing his finger in Tom’s chest. A dark, oppressive silence followed, each man refusing to back down. They stood just inches apart, holding each other’s furious gaze, their faces a mirror image of snarling, contemptuous fury. With curled lips and chests puffed out in a wanton display of masculine supremacy, their primordial instincts had come to the fore, fueling their need to subjugate and thereby claim victory. Testosterone pumped through their blood, invigorating their bodies with a charge of macho power and strength, the hormone swelling their cocks in a show of animalistic dominance. They were primed and ready for a fight, the rigidity of their muscles rippling beneath their scant clothing. But in the battle of wills, it was Booker who broke rank first, and like a coiled spring, he lunged forward and grasping Tom’s face roughly in his hands, he slammed his mouth against the young officer’s lips, swallowing the mocking sneer with the forcefulness of his kiss. There was no affection in the libidinous display, just an overwhelming need to dominate, to stamp his mark as the alpha male. Once again, traces of Holland had infected his thoughts, opening the floodgates of his abuse. The result had his mind writhing in turmoil because it wasn’t just about the agony of his sexual mistreatment, there was a deeper, darker aspect to his mental anguish. Buried beneath his emotional suffering was the frightening knowledge that regardless of the pain inflicted upon his body, he had _enjoyed_ sex with the older man. It was an awareness he endeavored to keep hidden in the darkest corner of his mind, but every now and then, his heart would fall out of rhythm, thumping erratically against his chest, and he’d break out in a cold sweat. There was a part of his personality that derived sexual pleasure from pain, and that made him just as twisted as his abuser.

Shocked by the unexpected contact, Tom instinctively lashed out, his open palms pushing against Booker’s chest. Garnet-red flashes flecked with white blurred his vision, the metallic tang of panic filling his mouth along with the unwanted savagery of Booker’s probing tongue. He was drowning in a sea of saliva, choking on the smoky flavor assaulting his taste buds, and in a moment of blind terror, he reacted by ramming his knee into Booker’s crotch.

The dark-haired officer crumpled to the floor with a loud groan, his hands protectively cupping his genitals. Tears spilled from his eyes, the sickening pain in his stomach sending a wave of nausea through his body, and rolling onto his side, he drew his legs up to his chest. “Oh God,” he moaned, the taste of vomit rising in his throat. “Why did you do that?”

A flicker of remorse passed over Tom’s face, but he refused to apologize, and standing over his friend’s contorted body, he spoke in a flat, affectless voice. “Because I’m not your whore.”

Using all his inner fortitude, Booker pushed himself up into a sitting position, his face a pale mask of pain. “What the... fuck are you... talking about?” he gasped, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored bursts. “I thought... this was... what you... wanted.”

“Not like that,” Tom muttered, his arms wrapping protectively around his waist. “Jorge might like it rough, but I don’t, especially after what happ—” 

The final word caught in his throat, the soft hiccuping sob bringing hot tears to his eyes, and turning away, he picked up his wallet from the coffee table. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m sorry.”

Realizing he could lose Tom forever if he didn’t act fast, Booker ignored the searing pain in his testicles and scrambled to his feet. “No, baby, wait!” he implored. “Let’s sit down and talk—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tom interjected softly as he headed for the door.

“Tommy, wait!” Booker cried out, his voice rising in panic. “Tom, you’re not wearing any pants!”

But his desperate plea fell on deaf ears, and seconds later, the slam of a door echoed throughout the small apartment, and he found himself alone.


	43. Why Can’t This Be Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I apologise for the delay in posting, I've been unwell. ******
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: They were primed and ready for a fight, the rigidity of their muscles rippling beneath their scant clothing. But in the battle of wills, it was Booker who broke rank first, and like a coiled spring, he lunged forward and grasping Tom’s face roughly in his hands, he slammed his mouth against the young officer’s lips, swallowing the mocking sneer with the forcefulness of his kiss. There was no affection in the libidinous display, just an overwhelming need to dominate, to stamp his mark as the alpha male. Once again, traces of Holland had infected his thoughts, opening the floodgates of his abuse. The result had his mind writhing in turmoil because it wasn’t just about the agony of his sexual mistreatment, there was a deeper, darker aspect to his mental anguish. Buried beneath his emotional suffering was the frightening knowledge that regardless of the pain inflicted upon his body, he had enjoyed sex with the older man. It was an awareness he endeavored to keep hidden in the darkest corner of his mind, but every now and then, his heart would fall out of rhythm, thumping erratically against his chest, and he’d break out in a cold sweat. There was a part of his personality that derived sexual pleasure from pain, and that made him just as twisted as his abuser._
> 
> _Shocked by the unexpected contact, Tom instinctively lashed out, his open palms pushing against Booker’s chest. Garnet-red flashes flecked with white blurred his vision, the metallic tang of panic filling his mouth along with the unwanted savagery of Booker’s probing tongue. He was drowning in a sea of saliva, choking on the smoky flavor assaulting his taste buds, and in a moment of blind terror, he reacted by ramming his knee into Booker’s crotch._
> 
> _The dark-haired officer crumpled to the floor with a loud groan, his hands protectively cupping his genitals. Tears spilled from his eyes, the sickening pain in his stomach sending a wave of nausea through his body, and rolling onto his side, he drew his legs up to his chest. “Oh God,” he moaned, the taste of vomit rising in his throat. “Why did you do that?”_
> 
> _A flicker of remorse passed over Tom’s face, but he refused to apologize, and standing over his friend’s contorted body, he spoke in a flat, affectless voice. “Because I’m not your whore.”_
> 
> _Using all his inner fortitude, Booker pushed himself up into a sitting position, his face a pale mask of pain. “What the... fuck are you... talking about?” he gasped, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored bursts. “I thought... this was... what you... wanted.”_
> 
> _“Not like that,” Tom muttered, his arms wrapping protectively around his waist. “Jorge might like it rough, but I don’t, especially after what happ—”_
> 
> _The final word caught in his throat, the soft hiccuping sob bringing hot tears to his eyes, and turning away, he picked up his wallet from the coffee table. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m sorry.”_
> 
> _Realizing he could lose Tom forever if he didn’t act fast, Booker ignored the searing pain in his testicles and scrambled to his feet. “No, baby, wait!” he implored. “Let’s sit down and talk—”_
> 
> _“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tom interjected softly as he headed for the door._
> 
> _“Tommy, wait!” Booker cried out, his voice rising in panic. “Tom, you’re not wearing any pants!”_
> 
> _But his desperate plea fell on deaf ears, and seconds later, the slam of a door echoed throughout the small apartment, and he found himself alone._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35800461532/in/dateposted-public/)

After an excruciatingly uncomfortable cab ride back to his neighborhood, Tom paid the driver, and ignoring the curious stares from the many bystanders going about their Saturday morning business, he hurried into his apartment building. He felt vulnerable wandering around in public in his underwear, and he longed for the sanctuary of his home, free from the scrutiny of prying eyes. While he recognized he had acted irrationally, spurred into action by the ferocity of Booker’s kiss, it was the second time his lover had pounced on him and forcefully tried to demand what should only be given freely, and the uncharacteristic behavior unnerved him. Something wasn’t right, but as much as he loved the dark-haired officer, he was too afraid to hang around and find out exactly what was going on inside his head. He needed space, and although he didn't want to admit it, he also needed time to reevaluate their relationship. A ripple of uncertainty was slowly gaining momentum inside his mind, and he was no longer sure if committing to Booker so soon after his rape was the right thing to do.

As if on cue, the words to Van Halen’s _‘Why Can’t This Be Love’_ played through his head, and he suppressed a wistful sigh. He _did_ get a funny feeling inside every time Booker touched him, but he wasn’t convinced it was enough, not anymore. They had both experienced too much physical and psychological pain, the scars of which they would carry to their graves, and he wondered if being entwined in each other’s lives in both a physical and an emotional level could, in fact, be causing them more harm than good. It was certainly something to consider, but he was too tired to give it too much thought, at least for the moment.

When he pushed open his door, the cold, desolate atmosphere of his apartment did little to ease his agitation, and switching on the overhead light, he stared morosely at the broken fragments of his life littering the living room. Although he had planned to take a long, hot shower, he felt the urge to get his home back to some semblance of order, which any reputable psychologist would have quickly interpreted as a symbolic desire to get his _life_ back in order. He carefully weighed up the pros and cons, but the impulse soon became too strong to ignore and abandoning his initial plan, he walked into the kitchenette in search of a dustpan and brush.

An hour later, although bare of any sentimental knick-knacks, his apartment no longer resembled a war zone. With only his broken television and a large bag of rubbish left to dispose of, he decided to take his long-awaited shower rather than embarrass himself further and walk down to the basement in his boxers. He’d had enough humiliation for one day, and he craved the sensation of warm water against his bare skin. It was his hope the therapeutic thrum would magically wash away the remnants of past regrets… and more importantly, the disturbing memory of Booker’s kiss. He just wanted to be Tom because he was tired of feeling like a victim, and he began to think the only way he would ever again feel like a real man was to move to a place where no one knew his history. By creating a new persona, he could finally break away from the shackles of his past and eradicate the ghosts that haunted his memories. It wouldn’t be easy, moving never was, but it might just be the answer to all his problems.

With a formative plan taking shape in his mind, he pulled off his hoodie and discarded it on the couch. However, before he could make it halfway across the room, a tap at his door had him spinning around, a frown puckering his brow. As he stared at the door, his teeth nervously worried a dry piece of flesh on his lower lip, unconsciously ripping at the jagged edge until blood pooled to the surface, the metallic tang adding to the taste of fear filling his mouth. Once again, he knew he was behaving irrationally, but his encounter with Booker had heightened his levels of paranoia, leaving him incapable of controlling the rising agitation twisting his stomach into a painful knot of anxiety. He was alone, unarmed, and if Michael McCarter _was_ standing outside his door, emotionally ill-prepared to face-off against a sexual predator. Beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip, and as he absently wiped them away with the back of his hand, his gut churned with indecision. He figured he had two options, he could walk into the bathroom, close the door, and ignore whoever was standing in the hallway or he could do what any sane person would do and peek through the peephole. 

When a second knock rattled the door, he made his choice, and creeping quietly across the floor, he pressed his eye against the viewer. Immediately, a relieved rush of air expelled from between his parted lips, and drawing back the chain, he opened the door. “Hey, Doug.”

“What’s up, Hanson,” Doug greeted, a hint of annoyance tainting his voice. “Long time no see. You’re a hard man to catch.”

Tom stepped back from the door, the silent gesture a clear invitation for his best friend to enter. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” he apologized with an awkward smile. “I haven’t been home much.”

Curious to hear his friend’s excuse, Doug played it casual. “I figured. So, where’ve you been?”

A wave of heat prickled up Tom’s neck, mottling his skin, and he struggled to keep up the pretense of a calm exterior. “Oh, you know. I spent some time at my mom’s and—”

“You were at your mom’s?” Penhall queried, his gaze deliberately studying his friend’s face, searching for any trace of nervousness. He’d spoken to Margaret Hanson, and he knew Tom was lying, but what he didn’t know was why. However, he planned to find out, even if his inquisitiveness caused another argument. He was tired of being on the outer, and he missed having a best friend. Although it was corny, soppy, and extremely effeminate to feel such a strong emotion toward another man, all he wanted was their relationship back to how it used to be when they confided their innermost secrets to each other. He couldn’t help it, he loved Tom, and he wanted him back in his life, even if he had to ruffle a few feathers to achieve his goal.

Rattled by his friend’s cop-like scrutiny, Tom’s carefully constructed facade began to falter. “Uh-huh,” he replied hurriedly. “You know, she was kinda worried so…”

His voice trailed off, and he quickly averted his eyes to the floor. For some inexplicable reason, the deception techniques he had learned at the Police Academy were gradually fading, and he was unable to maintain a convincing poker face. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if it was because he had spent too much time fabricating stories over the last six weeks, and maybe he had used up the number of lies permitted at any one time. But while he knew the thought was absurd, in his heart, he accepted the jig was up. Doug, despite what many people thought, was nobody’s fool, and if he didn’t come clean, he risked losing the best friend he had ever had.

“Tom?” Penhall queried, his voice surprisingly tender. “Is everyth—”

“I’m lying,” Tom sputtered, his words running together in a garbled stream. “You know I’m lying.”

With the truth now partly out in the open, Penhall’s expression relaxed, and resting a companionable hand on his friend’s shoulder, he offered him his trademark tilting smile. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly your best performance.”

Tom’s lips twitched at the corners without forming a smile. “No shit.”

Penhall’s lips pursed together, and two distinct worry lines furrowed his brow. “Are you okay, Hanson?” he asked softly, his inquisitive, brown eyes examining Tom’s face. “I mean, I know that’s a stupid question ‘cause, how could you be after—”

“I’m fine,” Tom interjected quickly, shutting Penhall down before he could mention his rape. “I just need some time.”

Sensing an opportunity, Penhall sought an answer to the question that had been bugging him for the last two weeks. “So, where’ve you been spending that time? ‘Cause I’ve called around almost every day and your Mustang’s parked out front, but you haven’t answered the door.”

It was not a question Tom felt comfortable answering, and once again, he was tempted to lie. But he quickly realized he was out of ideas, and any half-assed attempt to fool Penhall would only reinforce the bad blood brewing between them. While he had briefly flirted with the idea of starting a new life away from those who knew his dark shame, it was obvious he was kidding himself. He missed his friend, and he wanted to restore their unique relationship back to the point where they could tell each other anything, no matter how humiliating or painful. His and Booker’s relationship had matured to a point where it teetered on the brink of romance, but there were consequences. He had pushed Doug away, thereby destroying the trust he had once shared with the older officer. The only plus was that despite his appalling behavior, Doug had continued to stand by him, and therefore, he felt he owed him the truth… or a heavily edited version of what was sure to blow his friend’s mind.

Motioning toward the couch, he waited until Doug was seated before speaking, the hesitancy in his voice revealing the level of his unease. “If I tell you, you’ve got to promise not to get angry.”

The cloak-and-dagger response immediately aroused Doug’s curiosity, and leaning forward in his seat, he rested his elbows on his knees and stared intently at his friend. “Sure thing, man.”

Tom rubbed a nervous hand over his chin. While he knew he was making the right decision, the butterflies in his stomach told a different story. There was no ambiguity when describing Doug’s feelings for Booker; he hated him, and that meant the cat was about to be set among the pigeons. But Tom was tired of all the deception, and even though he was about to pick and choose how much information to divulge to his friend, he hoped to ease his conscience by admitting he and Booker were still in contact… at least that was the plan. However, if it backfired, he would lose the second most important person in his life, leaving him well and truly on his own, and that was not an experience he wished to endure.

But instead of allowing his reservations to manifest into a gut-wrenching fear, he summoned every inch of his resolve, and clenching his fists, he took a deep breath and revealed his secret. “I haven’t been home ‘cause I’ve been living with Dennis.”

It wasn’t so much Tom’s admission of his whereabouts that had Penhall reeling, it was his use of the name _Dennis._ For the second time in recent memory, his friend had used the dark-haired officer’s given name, and with it came a certain familiarity that rolled a little too easily off the tongue. Their bond was obviously much closer than he had realized, and with that knowledge came a rising swell of unease, coupled with a hint of jealousy. Tom was _his_ best friend, and while he was happy the young officer hadn’t spent his time wallowing alone, he could not help but feel a tinge of resentment. But his greatest concern had nothing to do with envy. Although they had worked side-by-side on many cases, he did not trust Booker, and especially where Tom was concerned. The vision of the dark-haired officer sucking off his best friend still haunted him, and, despite Tom’s reassurances to the contrary, he still considered it oral rape. The very thought of them sharing an apartment had him feeling nauseous, but he knew he needed to harness any feelings of animosity and support Tom’s decision. Otherwise, their friendship was worthless, and he might as well turn around and walk out the door.

Mustering a smile, he attempted to feign some enthusiasm in response to Tom’s admission. “That’s… _great._ But you’re back home now, right?”

Somewhat surprised by Doug’s attitude, Tom released the expectant breath he had been holding. But he could feel his friend’s eyes boring into him, waiting for an answer, and the roots of his hair prickled before a hesitant smile played briefly over his lips, followed by a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “I guess.”

Penhall exhaled an audible sigh of relief. “So, do you wanna do something tonight? How ‘bout bowling, you know, if you’re up for it?”

The last thing Tom wanted was to spend a night in a noisy bowling alley surrounded by strangers, but he knew if he didn’t try to live a normal life, he never would. So, he drew on his inner strength and gave his friend what he hoped was a convincing grin. “Sure. Pick me up at seven?”

Doug grinned back. “It’s a date.”


	44. Eyes of a Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom rubbed a nervous hand over his chin. While he knew he was making the right decision, the butterflies in his stomach told a different story. There was no ambiguity when describing Doug’s feelings for Booker; he hated him, and that meant the cat was about to be set among the pigeons. But Tom was tired of all the deception, and even though he was about to pick and choose how much information to divulge to his friend, he hoped to ease his conscience by admitting he and Booker were still in contact… at least that was the plan. However, if it backfired, he would lose the second most important person in his life, leaving him well and truly on his own, and that was not an experience he wished to endure._
> 
> _But instead of allowing his reservations to manifest into a gut-wrenching fear, he summoned every inch of his resolve, and clenching his fists, he took a deep breath and revealed his secret. “I haven’t been home ‘cause I’ve been living with Dennis.”_
> 
> _It wasn’t so much Tom’s admission of his whereabouts that had Penhall reeling, it was his use of the name Dennis. For the second time in recent memory, his friend had used the dark-haired officer’s given name, and with it came a certain familiarity that rolled a little too easily off the tongue. Their bond was obviously much closer than he had realized, and with that knowledge came a rising swell of unease, coupled with a hint of jealousy. Tom was his best friend, and while he was happy the young officer hadn’t spent his time wallowing alone, he could not help but feel a tinge of resentment. But his greatest concern had nothing to do with envy. Although they had worked side-by-side on many cases, he did not trust Booker, and especially where Tom was concerned. The vision of the dark-haired officer sucking off his best friend still haunted him, and, despite Tom’s reassurances to the contrary, he still considered it oral rape. The very thought of them sharing an apartment had him feeling nauseous, but he knew he needed to harness any feelings of animosity and support Tom’s decision. Otherwise, their friendship was worthless, and he might as well turn around and walk out the door._
> 
> _Mustering a smile, he attempted to feign some enthusiasm in response to Tom’s admission. “That’s… great. But you’re back home now, right?”_
> 
> _Somewhat surprised by Doug’s attitude, Tom released the expectant breath he had been holding. But he could feel his friend’s eyes boring into him, waiting for an answer, and the roots of his hair prickled before a hesitant smile played briefly over his lips, followed by a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “I guess.”_
> 
> _Penhall exhaled an audible sigh of relief. “So, do you wanna do something tonight? How ‘bout bowling, you know, if you’re up for it?”_
> 
> _The last thing Tom wanted was to spend a night in a noisy bowling alley surrounded by strangers, but he knew if he didn’t try to live a normal life, he never would. So, he drew on his inner strength and gave his friend what he hoped was a convincing grin. “Sure. Pick me up at seven?”_
> 
> _Doug grinned back. “It’s a date.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35838481201/in/dateposted-public/)

In the end, Tom’s long-awaited shower did little to relieve the tension in his body, and stepping out of the cubicle, he wiped a hand over the steamy bathroom mirror and carefully studied his reflection. Dozens of tiny water droplets clung to his hair, the shimmering beads eventually losing their precarious hold in rhythmic drips, sending a trail of moisture down his chiseled cheeks and onto his smooth chest. Stress had etched deep lines around his eyes, the weary, pained expression becoming more familiar with each passing day as the new, disenchanted Tom Hanson fought for dominance over the old. However, just beneath the surface, a faint light was beginning to glow, stubbornly resisting the slow, rotting decay of his soul by courageously fighting through the enveloping darkness. It was proof he wasn’t ready to give up, no matter how hard the road ahead might be, and it was that distant glimmer that kept him pushing forward, one slow step at a time toward wellness. He was nervous about his upcoming _boys’ night out_ with Doug, and while he recognized it wasn’t a huge leap forward, it was a leap forward nonetheless, and he felt immensely proud of himself for agreeing to it. Only a few days ago, he would have conjured up some lame excuse as to why he couldn’t go, but now, despite his trepidation, he was actually looking forward to spending some quality time with the young officer. Their relationship was important to him, and he was determined to get it back on track so they could once again claim the title of best friends and move forward with their lives. 

Unlocking his gaze from the mirror, he tilted his head from side to side, his fingers gently massaging the painful knot of muscles in his neck. His fight with Booker had managed to destroy all traces of post-climactic calm from his mind and body. It was only mid-morning, but he already felt exhausted, and the growing anxiety gnawing at his mind slowly took hold, once again stiffening his muscles into tight bunches of apprehension. The memory of Booker’s tongue forcibly violating his mouth sent a hot flush of shame prickling over his skin, and he wondered if he was to blame for the dark-haired officer’s uncharacteristic assault. But deep inside his soul, a tiny, rebellious spark slowly flickered into a flame, the blaze rapidly taking hold, engulfing his contrition in a wildfire of self-possessed morality. _He_ wasn’t the one at fault, Booker was, and there was no way in hell he would allow him to hinder his recovery. He’d endured too much to relinquish his self-respect, even if it was to the man he loved. If Booker couldn’t see the error of his ways, he was better off without him… even though he knew their breakup would rip a hole in his heart. But it was a price he was willing to pay to retain what was left of his dignity, and although painful, he felt confident in his decision. If he were to move forward in his life, he needed to forget about everyone else's feelings and take care of himself, otherwise, he ran the risk of a lifetime of misery, and that frightening thought was one he dared not entertain.

With a long-forgotten enthusiasm now coursing through his veins, he quickly toweled himself dry and hurried into the bedroom. After dressing in clean clothes, he stared around the room, the surge of energy pulsating throughout his body giving him a newfound determination. He wanted to keep busy, and spying a jumble of clothes lying in the bottom of his closet, he decided to clean the rest of his apartment. It wasn’t his favorite pastime, but as it would help keep his mind from thinking about Booker, it was a means to an end.

Happy he now had a plan for the day, he felt some of the tension leave his body, and picking up an armful of clothes, he went in search of some coat hangers.

**

**Three hours later**

Tom stood in the middle of his apartment, a satisfied smile curling the corners of his lips. He could not remember the last time he had cleaned his home from top to bottom, and the sense of achievement had a cathartic effect on his frazzled nerves. For the first time in weeks, he felt in control, and although the memory of his rape remained just beneath the surface of his consciousness, there was a faint glimmer of hope on the horizon. While he couldn’t change the past, he did have a certain amount of influence over his future, and the knowledge gave him peace of mind that he might actually weather the storm and emerge triumphantly from the shadows. It was the incentive he needed to keep going, and he clung to the belief that the feelings of guilt, hopelessness, and passive suicide ideation would gradually fade into the annals of his memory. The light at the end of the long, dark tunnel was slowly growing brighter, and with it, so was his confidence. He might never be the Tom Hanson of old, but there was an inner determination to shed the skin of the frightened, insecure man he had become and find a way to reinstate his lost dignity once and for all. At least then, the Pi Taus would not have won, and he could claim a small victory against the men who had attempted to destroy his world.

Content with his day’s work, he flopped onto the couch and picked up the remote before remembering he no longer had a television. It was only mid-afternoon; too early to get ready for his night out with Doug, and too late to start his next project—cleaning his Mustang—and exhaling a sigh, he pondered the alternatives. He needed to restock his apartment with food and beer, but that meant mixing with people, and he was still wary of crowds. He had nothing interesting to read, and he did not have the energy to go for a walk. So, with no other suitable ideas coming to mind, he decided his only option was to take a nap, and rolling onto his side, he closed his eyes and relaxed against the softness of the couch cushions. 

The rhythmic tick-tock of the kitchen clock stilled the young officer’s consciousness, his breathing slowed, and the veil of awareness dissolved, inducing calmness and repose of mind. But as he drifted into the first stage of sleep, a loud knock jerked him back into wakefulness, and opening his eyes, he stared at the door. His sixth sense tingled with a higher level of intuition, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck. It did not take a genius to figure out who was standing in the corridor, but what wasn’t clear in his mind was whether he cared. If he opened the door, an all-out confrontation was inevitable, and he would once again have to acknowledge the fucked-up state of his life. But if he ignored his visitor, he was hiding from the truth of his existence, a cowardly act that would solidify his fear and forever tarnish him as a victim. He chewed thoughtfully on his lip, weighing up the pros and cons before making his decision, and expelling a sigh of resignation, he climbed from the couch and walked over to the door. Nerves had him hesitating for several seconds, but he swallowed down his trepidation and straightening his shoulders, he pulled back the chain and opened the door.

The first thing Tom noticed was the lack of sparkle in Booker’s eyes, the second was the wretchedness etched deep in the lines of the downward curve of his mouth. But his friend’s apparent misery brought him little satisfaction, and relaxing his stance, he stepped back from the door and offered the dark-haired officer a wan smile. “I guess you’d better come in.”

Humbled by Tom’s willingness to invite him inside, Booker faltered for a moment before entering the apartment, his head hung low in shame. When the door closed, he reached out a hand, desperate to make things right with the man he loved. But Tom shied away from the contact, and visibly flinching at the rejection, an expression of anguish passed over his face. “Tommy, I—”

“Don’t,” Tom warned quietly, a deep sadness projecting from his dark eyes. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, it’ll just make things worse.”

“Worse?” Booker lamented quietly. “I assaulted you, and now you hate me, so how the fuck can it get any worse?”

The heartfelt confession had Tom’s stomach somersaulting with forgiveness, and his expression softened. “You didn’t assault me, Dennis, you—”

“I what?” Booker interjected, the hard edge in his voice wavering slightly. _“Forced_ myself on you? _Attacked_ you? It doesn’t matter how you say it, they all mean the same thing. I scared the shit out of you, and it isn’t the first time. You’re terrified I’m going to rape you, and I can’t blame you, Hanson, even _I_ don’t trust my own mind anymore, not after what Holl—”

A strangled sob swallowed the remainder of the mogul’s name, the unspoken fragment left suspended in the air. But without formation, the dreaded patronymic lost its impact, leaving Booker feeling ashamed, and hunching his shoulders, he turned away so Tom could not see the tears glistening in his eyes. “I should go, you don’t need this shit.”

Tom’s gaze remained fixed on the back of his friend’s head. Once again, Booker’s nonchalant attitude had slipped, the cracks in his facade exposing a more vulnerable side, and with it, a sense of desperation. Somewhere in the last few weeks, the dark-haired officer had lost the integral part of his being that made him Dennis Booker, leaving behind a tortured soul. The carefree, loving, yet exceedingly annoying cop was slowly fading into the ether, and all that remained was a shadowy imprint of his former self. It was a crisis of character Tom understood all too well, having suffered his own loss of identity after his rape. But somehow, watching strong, dependable Dennis struggle with his moral conscience now seemed far more disconcerting than learning to live with his own personal tragedy. The eyes staring despondently at the floor were that of a stranger, a man consumed with guilt. Devoured by darkness, Booker’s sin was a perversion of the soul, and like cancer, it was ravaging him from within. It was distressing to witness and unaccustomed to the stirring display of emotional frailty, Tom made the decision to proceed carefully. “Wait,” he instructed softly. “I changed my mind. Talk to me, tell me what’s going on."

When Dennis turned back around, there was an immediate shift in his personality; the old Booker was back, and with him, his familiar, condescending sneer. “Why? So we can compare notes on who’s the most fucked up? No thanks, Tommy, I think I’ll keep _my_ breakdown private, but thanks for your concern.”

The underlying criticism behind the statement was not lost on Tom, but it was the unexpected sarcasm that hurt the most. Anger worked its way down his arms, the force of his internal rage culminating in his hands, balling them into tight fists. But buried beneath the contemptuous remark, the young officer recognized a cleverly disguised cry for help, and curbing his mounting exasperation, he spoke in a clear, calm voice. “Bullshit. You came here because you want me to understand why you did what you did. So spill, tell me, and then we can put all this shit behind us and move on.”

Whether it was Tom’s willingness to forgive or the smoldering, emotive passion reflecting from his beautiful, dark eyes, Booker’s tough guy exterior suddenly faltered and his expression crumpled. “Oh God,” he choked, and covering his face with his hands, his breast heaved with a convulsive sob. “He did things to me, Tommy, _terrible_ things…”

Shared pain is the social glue of all mankind, and the ring of despair in Booker’s voice distantly echoed Tom’s own distress after his rape. Sympathy brightened his eyes, and stepping forward, he rested a light hand on the dark-haired officer’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I know, and—”

“NO!” Booker yelled, his clawed hands gesticulating wildly in front of his face. “You _don’t_ understand! I got off on it! What kind of sick, perverted freak gets off on being abused? And now there’s this emptiness inside me, a cold, dark _emptiness_ and I’m terrified I’ll hurt you! Oh God, what if I hurt you! I don’t know what to do… I don’t... know… what... to… _DO!”_

When the pitch of Booker’s voice rose to an agonized scream, Tom quickly realized he wasn’t the only one who needed professional help. It was a sobering awareness, and he wondered if either of them would ever know real peace, or if they were both destined to a lifetime of therapy.


	45. Seeing Is Believing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: “Don’t,” Tom warned quietly, a deep sadness projecting from his dark eyes. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, it’ll just make things worse.”_
> 
> _“Worse?” Booker lamented quietly. “I assaulted you, and now you hate me, so how the fuck can it get any worse?”_
> 
> _The heartfelt confession had Tom’s stomach somersaulting with forgiveness, and his expression softened. “You didn’t assault me, Dennis, you—”_
> 
> _“I what?” Booker interjected, the hard edge in his voice wavering slightly. “Forced myself on you? Attacked you? It doesn’t matter how you say it, they all mean the same thing. I scared the shit out of you, and it isn’t the first time. You’re terrified I’m going to rape you, and I can’t blame you, Hanson, even I don’t trust my own mind anymore, not after what Holl—”_
> 
> _A strangled sob swallowed the remainder of the mogul’s name, the unspoken fragment left suspended in the air. But without formation, the dreaded patronymic lost its impact, leaving Booker feeling ashamed, and hunching his shoulders, he turned away so Tom could not see the tears glistening in his eyes. “I should go, you don’t need this shit.”_
> 
> _Tom’s gaze remained fixed on the back of his friend’s head. Once again, Booker’s nonchalant attitude had slipped, the cracks in his facade exposing a more vulnerable side, and with it, a sense of desperation. Somewhere in the last few weeks, the dark-haired officer had lost the integral part of his being that made him Dennis Booker, leaving behind a tortured soul. The carefree, loving, yet exceedingly annoying cop was slowly fading into the ether, and all that remained was a shadowy imprint of his former self. It was a crisis of character Tom understood all too well, having suffered his own loss of identity after his rape. But somehow, watching strong, dependable Dennis struggle with his moral conscience now seemed far more disconcerting than learning to live with his own personal tragedy. The eyes staring despondently at the floor were that of a stranger, a man consumed with guilt. Devoured by darkness, Booker’s sin was a perversion of the soul, and like cancer, it was ravaging him from within. It was distressing to witness and unaccustomed to the stirring display of emotional frailty, Tom made the decision to proceed carefully. “Wait,” he instructed softly. “I changed my mind. Talk to me, tell me what’s going on."_
> 
> _When Dennis turned back around, there was an immediate shift in his personality; the old Booker was back, and with him, his familiar, condescending sneer. “Why? So we can compare notes on who’s the most fucked up? No thanks, Tommy, I think I’ll keep my breakdown private, but thanks for your concern.”_
> 
> _The underlying criticism behind the statement was not lost on Tom, but it was the unexpected sarcasm that hurt the most. Anger worked its way down his arms, the force of his internal rage culminating in his hands, balling them into tight fists. But buried beneath the contemptuous remark, the young officer recognized a cleverly disguised cry for help, and curbing his mounting exasperation, he spoke in a clear, calm voice. “Bullshit. You came here because you want me to understand why you did what you did. So spill, tell me, and then we can put all this shit behind us and move on.”_
> 
> _Whether it was Tom’s willingness to forgive or the smoldering, emotive passion reflecting from his beautiful, dark eyes, Booker’s tough guy exterior suddenly faltered and his expression crumpled. “Oh God,” he choked, and covering his face with his hands, his breast heaved with a convulsive sob. “He did things to me, Tommy, terrible things…”_
> 
> _Shared pain is the social glue of all mankind, and the ring of despair in Booker’s voice distantly echoed Tom’s own distress after his rape. Sympathy brightened his eyes, and stepping forward, he rested a light hand on the dark-haired officer’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I know, and—”_
> 
> _“NO!” Booker yelled, his clawed hands gesticulating wildly in front of his face. “You don’t understand! I got off on it! What kind of sick, perverted freak gets off on being abused? And now there’s this emptiness inside me, a cold, dark emptiness and I’m terrified I’ll hurt you! Oh God, what if I hurt you! I don’t know what to do… I don’t... know... what... to... DO!”_
> 
> _When the pitch of Booker’s voice rose to an agonized scream, Tom quickly realized he wasn’t the only one who needed professional help. It was a sobering awareness, and he wondered if either of them would ever know real peace, or if they were both destined to a lifetime of therapy._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35131272644/in/dateposted-public/)

Booker’s wild, panicked eyes slowly regained their composure, but when he saw the startled expression on Tom’s face, they once again filled with frightened tears. “Wh-what the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered, his bottom lip wobbling uncontrollably.

It was one of those moments where Tom knew his actions would speak far louder than any comforting words, and without hesitation, he stepped forward and gently placed his hands on either side of his lover’s face. Their eyes locked, and for the briefest of moments, he could see Booker’s soul reflecting through his pain-flecked irises, the depth of his despair shimmering in the desolate black pools. It was a powerfully moving experience and overcome with empathy, he brushed his lips over the dark-haired officer’s quivering mouth, tenderly silencing his fears with the soft caress. Never before had he felt such an overwhelming urge to nurture another human being, the intensity of the emotion rekindling his love for the man standing before him. There was now no doubt in his mind Booker was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and with the knowledge came a sense of peace; he had found his twin flame, and he would do everything in his power to protect him.

Startled by the unexpected contact, Booker pulled back, a flicker of surprise widening his eyes. “Tommy—”

“Shhh,” Tom whispered, his thumb lightly stroking Booker’s flushed cheek. “It’s okay, I know you’d never hurt me.”

The love and compassion shining from Tom’s eyes had the power to take Booker’s breath away, and he remained mute for several moments before finding the courage to openly admit what he’d avoided acknowledging since his liaison with Ingram Holland. “I need help.”

Relief flooded through Tom in a turbulent wave of emotion. He’d spent enough time with Booker to know he could be a stubborn sonofabitch, and he felt immensely proud his lover could take responsibility and reveal his level of mental anguish without embarrassment. It was the slap-in-the-face type of wake-up call the young officer needed because he was still having trouble coming to terms with his own breakdown. But now, as his heart swelled with love for the emotionally distressed man standing before him, he knew it would be a mistake to ignore the destructive behavior of his own psychological trauma. If he and Dennis were to make their relationship work, they both had to face their demons, no matter how emotionally challenging it might be.

With his thoughts now in order, he took hold of Booker’s hand and gave the cold, rigid fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I think we _both_ need help,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t realize how fucked up I was until… well, I’m sorry I overreacted, I behaved like a complete asshole. I _love_ you, Dennis, and one day, when I’m able, I want to show you just how much. So let’s do this together, okay? Let’s support each other through this so we can finally have the relationship we both want.”

A warm, tingly feeling, soft, like the flutter of butterfly wings, traveled down the length of Booker’s spine, the thrilling stimulation reawakening his desires. But he knew he needed to show restraint. Regaining Tom’s trust and proving once and for all he would never, ever hurt him was more important than getting off. The realization was a turning point for the man whose primary objective had always been his own, selfish desires, and he marveled at how Tom had managed to infect his soul and tame his wild heart. He now understood the power of love was the totality of his existence, and it extended much further than what his conscious mind perceived. It was the greatest attribute of human emotion, the human soul, and the human spirit, and with Tom by his side, he knew he could overcome his adversity and free his mind from the horrors of Holland’s abuse.

“Dennis?” Tom prompted softly when he noticed the faraway look in Booker’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

Unshed tears clung to Booker’s long lashes, the opaque droplets framing his beautiful eyes. But an intensity of love rarely expressed between couples began to shine from the dark orbs, the soft light bravely banishing the darkness, and pulling Tom into his arms, he pressed his mouth against his ear. “I am now.”

**

**Thirteen days later**

The hard, plastic case in Tom’s hand was all that protected the images stored on the video’s magnetic tape from being permanently destroyed. Someone had printed the word **LOVE SUCKS** in bold print on the label, a clever, yet disturbing pun considering the content. It was a sobering moment, and closing his eyes, the young officer concentrated on his breathing by inhaling through his nose for three seconds before exhaling through his mouth, the slow expulsion of air making an audible _hfff_ as it passed over his lips. It was a technique his therapist had taught him on his first visit, and once he realized it actually worked, he had quickly adopted the method. Within minutes, the tight knot of anxiety in his stomach loosened and his muscles relaxed, reducing the tremor in his hand. Once calm, he opened his eyes and stared at his new television. The _now or never_ moment had arrived, and slipping the tape into the VCR, he picked up the remote. His thumb hovered nervously over the tiny buttons, but in his heart, he knew the time had come to confront his past head on, and steeling himself for what he was about to see, he swallowed down his fear and pressed play.

**

The click of a key turning in the door signaled Booker’s return home from work, and using the remote to turn off the television, Tom turned in his seat and waited. Since their agreement to see a psychologist, Booker had moved out of his cramped, two-room apartment and into Tom’s more spacious home. However, the change to their living arrangement hadn’t gone as smoothly as Hanson would have liked. Although still anxious at the thought of penetrative sex, when Booker gave up his apartment and _officially_ moved in so they could start their lives together as a couple (albeit in secret), he had hoped their relationship would have progressed past the point of kissing. The memory of his lover jerking him off was still fresh in his mind, and he longed to experience the same level of intimacy again. But even though their relationship had transitioned past the point of just friendship, Booker remained at arm’s-length, stubbornly refusing to engage in any real sexual contact. For Tom, who now felt ready to take their affair to the next level, it was exceedingly frustrating, but he also knew he was mostly to blame. Two weeks before, he had reacted badly to the ferocity of Booker’s kiss, and the dark-haired officer now appeared reluctant to run the risk of him freaking out again. However, after much soul searching, Tom now had a plan, and although he wasn’t one-hundred percent sure it wouldn’t blow up in his face, he felt he at least needed to give it a try.

“Hey,” he greeted with a smile when Booker entered the apartment. “How was work?”

It was the same question Tom asked every time Booker came home from the Chapel, and immediately, the stock-standard reply of _“Fine,”_ took form on the dark-haired officer’s lips. But it hadn’t been fine, it had been a nightmare, as had the day before, and the day before that. He was tired of his coworkers treating him like a sexual deviant, he was tired of Fuller’s relentless supervision, and he was tired of Tom constantly asking him about his day. Therefore, his reply of _fine_ quickly transformed into an honest, yet abrasive answer. “Fucking brilliant. How ‘bout you, Hanson? Did you enjoy your day lazing around watching television? That Santa Barbara, huh? Riveting stuff.”

Tom’s smile faded, and unable to hide the pain radiating from his big, brown eyes, he quickly ducked his head, his eyelids rapidly blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “Sorry,” he mumbled, the heaviness in his chest thickening his voice. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

A gloomy stillness blanketed the air, suffocating the two men within its oppressive folds. The resentment silently brewing between them was now out in the open, giving substance to its validity. Both men felt justified in their anger; one because he had to face the wrath of his peers on a daily basis, the other because his career was in jeopardy and therefore, he no longer _had_ any peers. Booker had the job Tom wanted but was an outcast, whereas Tom had the peace Booker craved but had lost his identity. Neither man was happy with their situation, and so, the animosity had slowly festered. It was, without a doubt, a classic _‘the grass is greener on the other side’_ scenario, except, in reality, neither man really wanted what the other man had. What they _did_ want, was for their lives to return to the way they had been before the Pi Tau hazing case. Back then, they were unaffected by the horrors of rape and abuse, free from the black tendrils of suffering that constantly dragged them toward the darkness of a breakdown. They were carefree twenty-three-year-olds doing a job they loved, but in the blink of an eye, all that had changed; in the blink of an eye, _they_ had changed.

No longer able to deal with the tension in the room, Tom started to rise, but the couch suddenly depressed, and a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him seated. “I’m sorry, baby,” Booker whispered against his ear. “I’ve had a shit day, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Not one to hold a grudge once he’d received an apology, Tom relaxed back against Booker’s chest, his fingers playing nervously with the remote control in his hand. He wasn’t sure if now was the time to put his plan into motion, but he was afraid if he chickened out, he would never find the courage to go through with it. And so, with his decision now made, he turned and faced his lover, his long, dark lashes accentuating the anxiety shining from his beautiful brown eyes. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Unsettled by the comment, Booker’s brow creased into a worried frown. “Show me?” he queried, the timbre of his voice rising slightly. “Tommy, you’re not hurting yourself again, are you?”

Tom quickly shook his head, the sharp movement flicking his long bangs into his eyes. “No, it’s not that, it’s… just watch, okay? Then we can talk.”

With his interest now piqued, Booker faced the television as the young officer pressed the power button on the remote. After a momentary blackness, David Hasselhoff’s buff (if somewhat excessively hairy) torso materialized, the deepness of his tan highlighted against the cobalt blue of the Pacific Ocean behind him. Puzzled by the image, Booker started to speak, but Tom quickly silenced him. “Wait.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Booker saw Tom switch remotes, and he turned his attention back to the television. Innocently ill-prepared, he held his breath in anticipation, but his naïve curiosity quickly turned into heart-stopping distress as an image of Tom’s face filled the screen. Panic constricted his lungs, the suffocating sensation tightening his throat, and his eyes grew wide as he desperately tried to suck in a breath. But all he could manage was a slow, painful rasp before staggering to his feet and uttering one, distraught word. _“No!”_

Cold waves of regret undulated down the entire length of Tom’s body, sending shivers of remorse up and down his spine, and he silently cursed himself for being such an inconsiderate fool. He should have warned his lover instead of showing him the heavily edited tape of his assault without any preparation. His thumb quickly hit the pause button, and standing up, he placed his hand behind Booker’s neck, gently pulling him forward until the dark-haired officer’s head rested against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dennis, I’m _so_ fucking sorry. I should have explained, but I guess our argument threw me a little and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Jerking free from the affectionate hold, Booker glared back at Tom, his eyes blazing. “EXPLAIN? EXPLAIN _WHAT?”_ he shouted. “WHY THE _FUCK_ WOULD I WANT TO SEE THAT TAPE AGAIN? _WHY?”_

Momentarily confused, Tom faltered. “A-Again? When did you see—”

“HOLLAND!” Booker yelled, his voice tremulous, his features quivering with raw emotion. “HOLLAND PLAYED ME THE TAPE, AND I HAD TO WATCH MYSELF RAPING YOU! I ORALLY _RAPED_ YOU, HANSON! HOW THE _FUCK_ DO YOU THINK THAT MAKES ME FEEL?”

A slow dawning of comprehension relaxed the muscles in Tom’s jaw, and gripping Booker’s upper arms in a tight hold, he spoke in a calm, unwavering voice. “Listen to me, Dennis, I’ve told you before, you _didn’t_ rape me. And this isn’t the original tape; Doug took that and gave it to Fuller after I freaked out. _This_ is the edited tape, the one McCarter threatened to release if we went to the cops.”

Not seeing the distinction, Booker grasped hold of Tom’s wrists and violently yanked down his arms, his fingers cruelly squeezing the young officer’s carpal bones in a vice-like grip. “And why the _fuck_ would I want to watch that?” he spat, his wild eyes flashing with moral outrage. 

Unperturbed by Booker’s indignation, Tom managed to ignore the pain flaring in his wrists by gazing deep into his lover’s dark eyes. “Because it’ll show you what we could have.”

For several moments, the only sound in the room was the hypnotic tick-tock of the clock, interspersed with the rasp of Booker’s tortured breathing. Tom’s wrists burned, the fiery heat shooting up his arms in uncomfortable jolts of pain, but he refused to pull free in case he further aggravated the situation. Eventually, the intensity of his suffering eased as Booker’s fingers slipped free, leaving angry red marks in their wake.

“Dennis?” Tom ventured softly, resisting the urge to rub his wrists.

All the anger and humiliation surging through Booker’s body released in one, strangled sob, and his legs went limp, forcing him to collapse onto a chair or risk falling over. “I-I don’t understand,” he choked, his eyes desperately searching his lover’s face for an answer. “How can that tape show—”

“Just watch,” Tom interrupted softly, and picking up the remote, he pointed it at the television and pressed play.


	46. C’mon, Baby, Light My Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is quite long, I hope it doesn't disappoint.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Previously: Out of the corner of his eye, Booker saw Tom switch remotes, and he turned his attention back to the television. Innocently ill-prepared, he held his breath in anticipation, but his naïve curiosity quickly turned into heart-stopping distress as an image of Tom’s face filled the screen. Panic constricted his lungs, the suffocating sensation tightening his throat, and his eyes grew wide as he desperately tried to suck in a breath. But all he could manage was a slow, painful rasp before staggering to his feet and uttering one, distraught word. “No!”_
> 
> _Cold waves of regret undulated down the entire length of Tom’s body, sending shivers of remorse up and down his spine, and he silently cursed himself for being such an inconsiderate fool. He should have warned his lover instead of showing him the heavily edited tape of his assault without any preparation. His thumb quickly hit the pause button, and standing up, he placed his hand behind Booker’s neck, gently pulling him forward until the dark-haired officer’s head rested against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dennis, I’m so fucking sorry. I should have explained, but I guess our argument threw me a little and I wasn’t thinking straight.”_
> 
> _Jerking free from the affectionate hold, Booker glared back at Tom, his eyes blazing. “EXPLAIN? EXPLAIN WHAT?” he shouted. “WHY THE FUCK WOULD I WANT TO SEE THAT TAPE AGAIN? WHY?”_
> 
> _Momentarily confused, Tom faltered. “A-Again? When did you see—”_
> 
> _“HOLLAND!” Booker yelled, his voice tremulous, his features quivering with raw emotion. “HOLLAND PLAYED ME THE TAPE, AND I HAD TO WATCH MYSELF RAPING YOU… ORALLY RAPING YOU! HOW THE FUCK DO YOU THINK THAT MADE ME FEEL, HANSON? AND NOW YOU WANT ME TO WATCH IT AGAIN? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”_
> 
> _A slow dawning of comprehension relaxed the muscles in Tom’s jaw, and gripping Booker’s upper arms in a tight hold, he spoke in a calm, unwavering voice. “Listen to me, Dennis, I’ve told you before, you didn’t rape me. And this isn’t the original tape; Doug took that and gave it to Fuller after I freaked out. This is the edited tape, the one McCarter threatened to release if we went to the cops.”_
> 
> _Not seeing the distinction, Booker grasped hold of Tom’s wrists and violently yanked down his arms, his fingers cruelly squeezing the young officer’s carpal bones in a vice-like grip. “And why the fuck would I want to watch that?” he spat, his wild eyes flashing with moral outrage._
> 
> _Unperturbed by Booker’s indignation, Tom managed to ignore the pain flaring in his wrists by gazing deep into his lover’s dark eyes. “Because it’ll show you what we could have.”_
> 
> _For several moments, the only sound in the room was the hypnotic tick-tock of the clock, interspersed with the rasp of Booker’s tortured breathing. Tom’s wrists burned, the fiery heat shooting up his arms in uncomfortable jolts of pain, but he refused to pull free in case he further aggravated the situation. Eventually, the intensity of his suffering eased as Booker’s fingers slipped free, leaving angry red marks in their wake._
> 
> _“Dennis?” Tom ventured softly, resisting the urge to rub his wrists._
> 
> _All the anger and humiliation surging through Booker’s body released in one, strangled sob, and his legs went limp, forcing him to collapse onto a chair or risk falling over. “I-I don’t understand,” he choked, his eyes desperately searching his lover’s face for an answer. “How can that tape show—”_
> 
> _“Just watch,” Tom interrupted softly, and picking up the remote, he pointed it at the television and pressed play._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35800553962/in/dateposted-public/)

To the Pi Taus credit, it was an exceedingly well-edited video. With each frame carefully spliced for maximum effect, the end result told an erotic tale of uninhibited passion, the reenactment a far cry from the horror of the actual event. The first movement of Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_ projected softly through the speakers, the powerfully dark piano concerto having a profound effect on both men, capturing their imaginations in an auditory meditation of the soul. As the visual story played out on the twenty-five-inch television, Booker sat forward in his seat, his clenched fists resting stiffly on his knees. When Tom’s face filled the screen, there was no sound except the melodic whisper of one of the finest pieces of music ever composed. With his head arched back and his bow-shaped lips forming a perfect O, the young officer’s expression bore no signs of fear. Instead, through clever adaptation, the viewer was fooled into believing the sex was consensual, nothing more than a hypnotic display of erotic passion between two lovers, the imagery recorded for their own gratification. It was digital deception at its finest, an illusory work of art designed to mislead, yet cleverly provocative in its magical farce.

Booker visibly flinched as the 8mm Sony Handycam panned down, capturing the moment his tongue swirled around Tom’s smooth cockhead, tenderly massaging the tip with soft, feathery strokes before taking him into his mouth. As his lips moved leisurely up and down the erect shaft, gently sucking and caressing, increasing and decreasing pressure for maximum arousal, Tom’s voice rose above the haunting strains of music, his orgiastic _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_ mantra a stirring vocalization of his impending climax. It was an emotionally arousing performance, but for Booker, the reality was still so painfully raw, he was unable to lose himself in the fantasy of the affectation. Therefore, when Tom’s moans became louder, he screwed his eyes closed and covered his ears with his hands, successfully managing to block out the moment the young officer shuddered out his release.

Lost in the misery of his contrition, he didn’t feel the light hand resting on his shoulder until Tom’s fingertips lovingly stroked the strip of exposed skin above the crew-neck of his white, cotton tee shirt. Embarrassed by the contact, he jerked away, the bitter taste of guilt rising from the pit of his stomach, the emotional lump catching painfully in his throat. But the tender caress continued, with Tom’s long fingers affectionately pulling at the sweaty strands of hair coiled at the nape of his neck, the light, physical stimulation sending a shiver of arousal down his spine. Minutes passed, and unable to ignore the tender ministrations any longer, he lowered his hands, and tilting his head, he peered out through a curtain of hair, a deep regret shimmering from the depths of his dark eyes. “Oh God, Tommy, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“I’m not,” Tom replied softly, his cheeks blushing an attractive shade of pink in response to Booker’s startled look. “Not anymore. I know it’s a lie, Dennis, but it doesn’t have to be. We could have this, for real I mean, if you still want to.”

“I-If I still _want_ to?” Booker sputtered, his surprise raising the pitch of his voice. “Jesus, Tom, of _course_ I do! I just thought you felt differently about me because I behaved like such an asshole and—”

“Whoa,” Tom admonished quietly. “Let’s not keep laying blame. I love you, more than I’ve loved anyone I think, and I want you to show me how I can prove it to you.”

Booker’s eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement. “Show you how you can _prove_ it to me? Tommy, I don’t understand.”

The hot flush coloring Tom’s cheeks deepened, and ducking his head, he peered coyly through his dark lashes. “You know, I want you to _show_ me.”

When the meaning behind Tom’s cryptic words finally became apparent, an expression of wonderment animated Booker’s features, the soft, preternatural light shining from his eyes sparkling with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. “Do you mean you want—”

“Yes,” Tom replied hurriedly, the hot flush of embarrassment spreading down his neck, staining his pale skin. “I want to take things further. I want you to show me _how_ we take things further.”

It wasn’t just the softly spoken words that sent Booker’s heart rate skipping into an arrhythmic tattoo of fast, heavy beats, it was also the innocent inflection in his friend’s voice that had his legs turning to rubber. Tom finally trusted him enough to take their relationship to the next level, but with that faith came great responsibility. Not only was the young officer a rape survivor, but up until only a few months ago, he had also never engaged in any form of gay sex. As the experienced partner, Booker knew he would have to show restraint, and not allow his emotions to run away with him. By allowing Tom to set the pace, he understood it might take weeks, if not months before he could fulfill his dream of making love to the beautiful young officer. However, it was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make. Tom was his everything, and now all their demons were finally out in the open, it was time for them to move forward and start living life as a cohesive couple, united as one and free from the fears that had destroyed their innocence.

“Dennis?” Tom urged quietly, a nervous quiver straining his voice. “I said I—”

Soft lips pressed against the young officer’s mouth, the tenderness of the kiss enough to smother the self-doubt tainting his words, and tracing his tongue over Booker’s lower lip, he playfully nipped and sucked at the plump flesh. “Is that a yes?”

 _“Yesss,”_ Booker moaned, the warm tendrils of his breath tickling Tom’s lips. “Fuck yes.”

Hanson stood up, and ignoring the tremor in his legs, he took the dark-haired officer by the hand, and gently pulled him to his feet. Vivid reddish-orange flecks highlighted the velvety softness of his espresso-brown eyes, and without speaking, he turned and led his lover into the bedroom. Kicking off his boots, he slowly undressed, his cock hardening under Booker's watchful eye. Once naked, he lay down on the bed, waiting, wanting, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged breaths, his arousal now evident. It had taken many weeks, but he was finally ready for the next step, and although nervous, he was also trembling with eager anticipation.

Overcome with emotion, Booker took a moment to visually absorb the breathtaking sight of Tom’s masculinity rising proudly from its nest of dark pubic hair, the mouthwatering droplets of pre-cum glistening on the tip silently beckoning him. A wave of hot, prickly arousal ran down the length of his penis, thickening the shaft, the tingly sensation raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Outside, a car horn blared, the sounds of the city drifting up from the street below, the urban resonance generating a modicum of reality to the surrealism of the scene. When a sudden gust of wind ruffled the curtains, the fall breeze hardened his nipples, increasing his desire to feel Tom’s naked flesh pressing against his own. His cock swelled, adding length to his already impressive appendage, the evidence of his hunger straining the front of his faded blue denims. He was primed and ready to go, but he knew he needed to exhibit self-control or he ran the risk of ruining the experience for Tom. If he came across too eager, he might intimidate his lover, but on the flip side, he didn’t want to appear too detached. It was a delicate balancing act, but he understood slowing his passion to a pace that wouldn’t overwhelm a novice partner was what worked best. Tom was looking to him for guidance, and he would initiate him into the intoxicating world of gay sex with gentle, loving hands.

With an impish smile, he stripped off his clothes, taking the time to give Tom an erotic visual show designed to further his arousal. Once naked, he sat on the edge of the bed, his rigid cock protruding from a mass of dark curls, his eyes soft with understanding. It was a pivotal moment in both their lives and placing a hand on Tom’s quivering thigh, he lovingly brushed his fingertips over the warm flesh, the tender touch soothingly reassuring. “Remember, we can stop whenever you want,” he murmured softly. “Just say the word, okay?”

Tom nodded, his large, trusting eyes boring into the very depths of Booker’s soul. After receiving permission, the dark-haired officer wasted no time, and crawling on his hands and knees, he straddled his lover’s body, his cock hovering tantalizingly close to the hot, hard flesh rising from below. However, despite the temptation, he resisted the urge to rub his erection against Tom’s, and instead, he ducked his head and brushed his lips over his lover’s full, enticing pout.

It was a sweet, chaste demonstration of affection, but it quickly transitioned into a hungry expression of want and need, the plush wetness of his tongue slipping deep inside the moist cavern of Tom’s mouth. Their tongues met, pressing and stroking together in an erotic tango, each loving caress heightening their arousal. Booker quickly realized things were moving too fast, and curbing his fervor, his lips left the sensual curve of Tom’s mouth, moving slowly along his chiseled jawline until he found an earlobe. Using his teeth, he lightly toyed with the hooped earring dangling from the smooth flesh, but he instantly wanted more contact and burying his face in the crook of Tom’s neck, he breathed in the warm, masculine scent before brushing a kiss over the sensitive spot just below his ear. A tight whimper caught his attention, and smiling against the taut skin, he continued his exploration, his tongue trailing a wet path down to the hollow of his lover’s throat. His mouth nipped and sucked at the firm, inviting flesh, moving slowly downward until he reached a nipple. He grazed the nub with his teeth, coaxing it to hardness, and was immediately rewarded when it responded to the stimulation, tightening into a hard bud. His tongue flicked teasingly over the raised mound before mouthing over the warm flesh, his full lips sucking the brown areola, the tender oral massage eliciting a louder moan from above. When gentle but insistent hands pushed his head lower, he did not resist, and continuing his journey of exploration, he lovingly kissed a trail down Tom’s torso, pausing when he reached his hip. He used his tongue to lubricate the area of flesh and partially opening his lips, he gently sucked the skin into his mouth, slowly increasing the pressure until blood pooled to the surface, leaving a perfectly formed love tattoo. Pleased with the result, he traced the contours of Tom’s stomach muscles with his tongue, his light, teasing caresses moving him ever closer to his destination, the scent of sex drawing him in. Tom’s erection lay flat against his belly, the head shiny with pre-cum. Shifting his position slightly, Booker pressed his lips against the underside of his lover’s shaft, the surrounding soft nest of pubic hair tickling his nose, and trailing his tongue along the penile raphe, he teased and coaxed with soft feathery strokes. When he reached the head, he lightly flicked his tongue over the tip, the saliferous taste awakening his taste buds.

 _“Ohhh,”_ Tom breathed, his fingers gently massaging Booker’s head. “Oh, Dennis.”

Encouraged by his lover’s reaction, Dennis decided to test the boundaries a little further. Gently pushing open Tom’s left leg, he peppered soft, butterfly kisses up his inner thigh, taking his time until he felt the quivering muscles beneath his lips relax. Using his right hand, he began a gentle exploration of Tom’s scrotum, lightly pinching and rolling the skin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing pleasure from the tactile sensation. A soft whimper sounded from above, and wrapping his fingers around the sac, he tenderly massaged Tom’s balls, gently pulling the testicles down and away from his body, expertly exposing more nerve endings and increasing the sensitivity. Lightly stroking the taut skin, his lips continued their graceful dance over the flesh of his lover’s thigh, moving ever higher until he reached the gluteal fold. He paused, the heaviness of Tom’s short, sharp breaths adding an acoustic texture to the sexually charged atmosphere, spurring him on, and growing bolder, he lifted the testicles in his hand and stimulated the flesh of the young officer’s perineum with his lips.

Tom sucked in a loud gasp of air as Booker’s tongue darted out and lightly teased his anus, probing gently before a moist mouth enveloped his testicles, the soft lips massaging the velvety skin with toe-curling sucks. His hips gyrated upward, urging his lover on, wanting more, _needing_ more, his breathing now more of a pant than a steady, rhythmic respiration. “Suck me,” he gasped, his hands coaxing Booker’s head forward. “I’m so hard… oh God, Dennis, I’m so hard!”

They were the magical words Dennis had waited to hear since first laying eyes on Tom, and a delighted chill swept through his body, quickening his heart rate. This time, there was no fear or panic straining his lover’s voice, no high-pitched scream begging him to stop. Their adoration was mutual, the love consensual, and from this point forward, Booker knew it would only grow stronger.

The body beneath him trembled uncontrollably, and not wanting Tom to blow his load before he had a chance to taste him, Booker released his lover’s testicles and sat up, a playful smile tilting his lips. Maneuvering over to the side of the bed, he brushed his lips over Tom’s quivering pout. “Do you wanna come, baby?”

Tom’s hands gave the answer, urgently guiding Booker’s head down toward his groin, his fingers entwining in the officer’s tousled curls. There were no second thoughts, just an overwhelming desire to feel his lover’s moist lips around his cock, teasing forth the release he so desperately craved, bringing closure to the horror of his assault with one, consensual act.

Soft lips glanced over the head of his penis, barely making contact with the smooth tip, but it was enough for Tom to voice his pleasure, his impassioned cry echoing around the small room. Emboldened by the fervent response, Dennis wrapped his mouth around his lover’s cockhead and sucked, his fingers moving languidly over the erect shaft, intensifying the stimulation. Tom’s hands attempted to force Booker’s head lower, the trembling of his legs further affirming the urgency behind his not so subtle persuasive movements. His hips rocked forward, forcing his erection deeper into the enthusiastic mouth, his fingers pulling at the tousled tresses of his lover’s dark hair. A flood of pre-cum coated Booker’s tongue, the salty juices mixing with his saliva, sharpening the explosive tang. Experience warned him Tom was close to ejaculating and removing his hand, his mouth moved up and down, his skilled lips applying varying amounts of pressure as he mouthed over the stiff shaft. He savored the texture of the hard flesh gliding through his lips, the sensory stimulation driving him closer to orgasm, but he refrained from touching himself, preferring to concentrate his efforts on giving his lover maximum pleasure. Tom’s low moans soon transformed into grunts, his hips smoothly gyrating in rhythm with Booker’s oral titillation. It was the sign Booker had been waiting for, and taking Tom’s cock deep into his mouth, he pressed his lips tightly around the shaft and started to hum.

The soft vibration pushed Tom to the pinnacle of his desire, and crying out, he bucked his hips upward as wave after wave of rapturous euphoria rocked his body, the force of his ejaculation filling Booker’s mouth with a gush of warm semen. A burst of sapidity stimulated the dark-haired officer’s taste buds, heightening his arousal, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. He longed to touch his burgeoning erection, to bring himself to the dizzying peak of orgasm, but instead, he unselfishly focused on giving Tom pleasure by continuing to use his mouth to skillfully lap and suck at the impressive appendage softening between his lips. 

Once satisfied, he rolled onto his back, his magnificent erection lying flat against his taut belly, the head blushing a deep shade of pink. Tom’s sated eyes grew wide with curiosity, and sitting up, he reached out a tentative hand, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing over the swollen flesh. An excited moan expelled from between Booker’s lips, the thrill of Tom touching him for the first time almost too much to bear. He was on a knife’s edge, desperate for release, but he knew he needed to exercise patience. Touching another man’s cock was a new experience for Tom, and he wanted him to cherish the erotic sensation and commit it to memory as the moment their love was reciprocated.

Long fingers circled his shaft, the contact hesitantly gentle. “Yes,” he encouraged softly, his voice trembling with excitement. “Touch me, Tommy, touch me.”

With his confidence mounting, Tom slid his hand over his lover’s shaft, tentatively finding his rhythm. Although not the most proficient handjob Booker had received, the jerkiness of the motion was a thrilling, touchingly naïve attempt to please and his heart swelled with love. “That’s it,” he counseled gently, his gaze fixed on the erotic sight of Tom jerking him off. “Faster… faster.”

Tom’s brow knitted in concentration, the pink tip of his tongue protruding through his lips as his fingers moved swiftly over the dark-haired officer’s erection. Despite his aptitude in effecting an orgasm through masturbation, having another man’s cock in his hand was strangely unfamiliar, and he felt embarrassingly inept. But he was determined to try his best, to give Booker the same pleasure selflessly bestowed upon him just minutes before, and in doing so, become his equal.

“Oh God,” Booker moaned, his chest rising and falling in short, heavy pants as the young officer’s fingers twisted and tugged at his aching cock. “Oh, Tommy… oh, Tommy… oh, Tommy… oh, Tommy… oh… _ahhh!”_

Warm semen splattered his chest, the force of his ejaculation surprising both men. Wide-eyed, he gazed up at Tom, his expression incredulous. “Wow.”

Heat flamed Tom’s cheeks, an alluring, shy smile gracing his lips. “Was that okay? I mean, I know I’ve got a lot to learn, but—”

“Baby, did you _see_ me come?” Booker laughed, pulling Tom on top of him so he could enjoy the climactic afterglow with his lover’s hot, naked body pressing against his tingling skin. “I can’t remember the last time someone had that effect on me.”

Relieved and a little proud, Tom found a comfortable position and wrapping his arm around Booker’s waist, he exhaled a contented sigh. “I love you.”

Tears welled in Booker’s eyes, and gathering Tom close, he pressed his lips against his forehead. “I love you too, beautiful.”

**

The sound of knocking jerked Tom from a dreamless sleep, and rolling over, his eyes strayed sleepily over the face of the man lying next to him. Stray strands of hair fell across Booker’s forehead, accenting the smoothness of his brow. With eyes closed and lips slightly parted, he was a vision of masculine beauty, his sleep-relaxed features showing no signs of the emotional pain he had suffered just hours before. Tom’s lips curled gently at the corners. His lover was finally free from the guilt that had plagued him since the Pi Tau initiation, signaling a new beginning for both the young officers.

A second knock pulled Tom from his musings, and grabbing the blanket off the bed, he trudged drowsily across the room and out into the living area. Without bothering to check the peephole, he yanked open the door, his eyes still bleary with sleep.

Penhall stood in the corridor, a battered bowling bag clutched in his right hand. “Hey, man. Ready to roll a few frames?” 

Tom jerked fully awake, his heart squeezing up into his throat. It was Friday night, and he had a standing bowling date with Doug, but in his excitement, he had completely forgotten about it. So, there he stood, a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders, caught _in flagrante delicto_ by his best friend, with Booker sleeping naked just a few feet away. It was his worst nightmare come true, and a telltale blush reddened his face. “Um, n-not tonight,” he stammered. “I-I’m kinda busy.”

Penhall stared moodily at his friend, his chin jutting forward in protest. “You're shittin’ me. C’mon, Hanson, Friday night is _our_ night, how can you be—” 

He stopped abruptly, a knowing smile curling his lips. “Sonofabitch!” he laughed, his fist playfully thumping Tom in the shoulder. “You’ve got a girl in there. Good for you, man, it’s about time you got—”

“Hey, Tommy, when are you coming back to bed, I’m getting kinda lone— _Jesus!”_

Doug’s expression froze, his jaw slackened in shock before his forehead puckered and his lips tightened into a teeth-baring snarl. Equal measures of disbelief and disgust shone from his eyes, the full-frontal vision of Dennis’ naked body sending his mind into a spin. _“Booker?”_ he exclaimed, his nostrils flaring with anger. “You’re sleeping with _Booker?”_

Unashamed by his state of undress, Booker sauntered across the room and draped a casual arm around Tom’s shoulders, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smug grin. Self-confidence radiated off him in tangible waves, his sweat-slicked body unashamedly displaying its enviable assets with pride. With raised levels of testosterone coursing through his bloodstream, his shameless exhibitionism was an unconscious warning for Penhall to back off. He had waited too long and fought too hard to lose Tom because Doug had shamed him into believing their relationship was wrong, and he didn’t give a damn who he upset along the way.

“Hey, Penhall,” he greeted casually, ignoring the obvious elephant in the room. “Sorry, but Tommy can’t come out and play, he’s kinda busy.”

Mottled, purple rage colored Doug’s face, accenting the whites of his eyes. The corded muscles in his neck strained, the anger mounting inside him working its way down into his fingers, contorting them into tight claws. He struggled to find his words, but when he did, he released them in a bitter tirade of abuse. “YOU SONOFABITCH!” he screamed directly into Booker’s face, spittle flying from his snarling lips. “YOU COULDN’T WAIT TO GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS ON HIM! IF YOU’VE HURT HIM, I’LL KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME? I’LL FUCKING _KILL_ YOU!”

Tiny prickles of panic darted up and down Tom’s spine, temporarily paralyzing him. But when Penhall’s clawed hand balled into a threatening fist, he sprang forward, his mouth twisting in anguish. “Doug, plea—”

 _WHUMP!_

Blinding white pain erupted in Tom’s head, the force of Doug’s punch propelling him backward. A low, distressed moan slipped through his lips, the impact of the blow knocking him senseless. He fought to remain upright, but a swirling blackness enveloped him and unable to fight off the impending darkness, his legs gave way, and he collapsed unconscious into Booker’s arms.

“TOM!” Booker cried out, the weight of Hanson’s body pulling them both to the floor. Quickly gathering his lover in his arms, he cradled him against his bare chest, his trembling fingers lightly stroking the young officer’s pale face. “Oh, baby.”

Penhall dropped to his knees, his face white with shock. “I-I didn’t mean to hit him! I was aiming for—”

“Me?” Booker snapped, his cold, piercing gaze fastening on Doug’s worried face. “And that makes it okay, does it? Maybe if you weren’t so fixated on Tom’s rape, you’d see he was happy for the first time in months, and a lot of that has to do with me!”

The lines furrowing Penhall’s brow deepened. Suddenly, everything made perfect sense, and a deep shame welled inside him. As much as it pained him to admit it, Booker was right, he _was_ haunted by Tom’s assault, and in his mind, the line between what constituted consensual and _non-_ consensual gay sex had become blurred. He loved Tom and more than anything he wanted to see him happy. Therefore, he knew it shouldn’t matter whom the young officer chose as a partner, as long as they treated him with love and respect. Booker wasn’t the ideal choice of a lover for his friend, but if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that the dark-haired officer loved Tom, and if Tom felt the same way, then who was he to stand in the way? Love, after all, knew no bounds, and if Tom was happy in his relationship with Booker, then he needed to get over his reservations and accept his friend for what he was; bisexual.

A loud groan yanked Doug back to the present, the harrowing sound adding weight to his already overburdened guilt. When Tom’s eyes fluttered open, he leaned forward and lightly touched his friend’s ashen face. “Hey, pal, I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

Booker slapped the officer’s hand away. “Don’t touch him.”

There was no mistaking the hostility in Dennis’ voice, and rather than cause Tom more aggravation, Doug rose slowly to his feet. “Maybe I should go.”

“Yeah, maybe you should,” Booker shot back without looking up.

Penhall stood for a moment, shoulders slumped, his face a mask of pure misery. When Booker continued to ignore him, he exhaled a weary sigh. “All right, just… just tell him I’m sorry, okay?”

“Fuck you,” Booker muttered under his breath. He was tired of people judging him, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass if Penhall _was_ Tom’s best friend, if the officer couldn’t accept their relationship, then he felt no need to play nice. As far as he was concerned, Doug and the rest of the Jump Street officers could go to hell, and he and Tom would do just fine without them.


	47. Your Gay Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **A quick note to my dedicated reader, _Ute_ ... Please don't hate me for what is about to take place in this chapter!**
> 
> **Hugs!**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tiny prickles of panic darted up and down Tom’s spine, temporarily paralyzing him. But when Penhall’s clawed hand balled into a threatening fist, he sprang forward, his mouth twisting in anguish. “Doug, plea—”_
> 
> _WHUMP!_
> 
> _Blinding white pain erupted in Tom’s head, the force of Doug’s punch propelling him backward. A low, distressed moan slipped through his lips, the impact of the blow knocking him senseless. He fought to remain upright, but a swirling blackness enveloped him and unable to fight off the impending darkness, his legs gave way, and he collapsed unconscious into Booker’s arms._
> 
> _“TOM!” Booker cried out, the weight of Hanson’s body pulling them both to the floor. Quickly gathering his lover in his arms, he cradled him against his bare chest, his trembling fingers lightly stroking the young officer’s pale face. “Oh, baby.”_
> 
> _Penhall dropped to his knees, his face white with shock. “I-I didn’t mean to hit him! I was aiming for—”_
> 
> _“Me?” Booker snapped, his cold, piercing gaze fastening on Doug’s worried face. “And that makes it okay, does it? Maybe if you weren’t so fixated on Tom’s rape, you’d see he was happy for the first time in months, and a lot of that has to do with me!”_
> 
> _The lines furrowing Penhall’s brow deepened. Suddenly, everything made perfect sense, and a deep shame welled inside him. As much as it pained him to admit it, Booker was right, he was haunted by Tom’s assault, and in his mind, the line between what constituted consensual and non-consensual gay sex had become blurred. He loved Tom and more than anything he wanted him to be happy. Therefore, he knew it shouldn’t matter whom the young officer chose as a partner, as long as they treated him with love and respect. Booker wasn’t the ideal choice of a lover for his friend, but if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that the dark-haired officer loved Tom, and if Tom felt the same way, then who was he to stand in the way? Love, after all, knew no bounds, and if Tom was happy in his relationship with Booker, then he needed to get over his reservations and accept his friend for what he was; bisexual._
> 
> _A loud groan yanked Doug back to the present, the harrowing sound adding weight to his already overburdened guilt. When Tom’s eyes fluttered open, he leaned forward and lightly touched his friend’s ashen face. “Hey, pal, I’m sorry. It was an accident.”_
> 
> _Booker slapped the officer’s hand away. “Don’t touch him.”_
> 
> _There was no mistaking the hostility in Dennis’ voice, and rather than cause Tom more aggravation, Doug rose slowly to his feet. “Maybe I should go.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, maybe you should,” Booker shot back without looking up._
> 
> _Penhall stood for a moment, shoulders slumped, his face a mask of pure misery. When Booker continued to ignore him, he exhaled a weary sigh. “All right, just… just tell him I’m sorry, okay?”_
> 
> _“Fuck you,” Booker muttered under his breath. He was tired of people judging him, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass if Penhall was Tom’s best friend, if the officer couldn’t accept their relationship, then he felt no need to play nice. As far as he was concerned, Doug and the rest of the Jump Street officers could go to hell, and he and Tom would do just fine without them._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35582234070/in/dateposted-public/)

“I said I’m fine,” Tom snapped, his head jerking away from Booker’s tender touch. “Stop fussing.”

Sitting back on his heels, Booker studied his lover’s face. The impact of Penhall’s knuckles had left a noticeable mark on the young officer’s jaw, the purplish-red bruise a painful reminder of the accidental assault. But it wasn’t the contusion causing him concern, it was Tom’s brief loss of consciousness, and despite his lover’s moody countenance, he pushed the point. “You need to get checked over at the hospital."

With a groan, Tom hauled himself to a standing position. He teetered on his feet for several seconds before recovering his equilibrium. “What I _need_ is to find Doug.”

“Why?” Booker asked, his lower lip pushing into a fractious pout. “He hates me, and he’ll find a way to break us up.”

With his jaw aching and his dignity once again in tatters, Tom rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Is _that_ what’s bugging you? Jesus, Dennis, give me some credit. Penhall's my friend, not my fucking mother. Nothing he says is gonna change my mind about you.”

Booker rose to his feet. “You say that now,” he muttered. “But you and I _both_ know you always take his advice. He’s gonna try and turn you against me, and without realizing it, you’re gonna let him.”

A bitter resentment ravaged Tom’s lips, twisting them into an angry scowl. “Well, gee, _Booker,_ it’s nice to know what you _really_ think of me.”

“Hey, I’m just telling it like it is,” Booker replied, his tone hostile. “If you can’t handle the truth, maybe you should—”

“Do you know what your problem is?” Tom interjected, the muscles in his jaw tightening with anger. “You're jealous. You need to back off and stop treating me like a child.”

“Then stop acting like one!” Booker snarled. “Jesus, Hanson, what’s wrong with you? How can you not see Penhall is pulling your strings? You’re his fucking _puppet,_ and you don’t even care! Are you _that_ insecure you need his approval to date me?”

An indignant fury flashed in Tom’s dark eyes. “Fuck you,” he spat. “I don’t need to listen to this shit. This is my life, and I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

“Fine,” Booker shot back. “I’ll leave you in peace so you can think about what this relationship really means to you.” 

It was an idle threat, but when Tom remained silent, the dark-haired officer began to question the rashness of his statement. But he'd backed himself into a corner, and although guilty of inciting an argument, his arrogance blinded him to the part he'd played. But whether he was to blame or not, the whys and wherefores had little bearing on his current situation. He needed time to reevaluate his life, and without another word, he stormed past Tom and out of the apartment.

**

Plumes of cigarette smoke wafted through the bowling alley bar, the nicotine-tinged haze lingering in the air. While the slow rotation of the ceiling fans made little difference to the smoky atmosphere, the gentle _whoosh, whoosh_ had a cathartic effect and Tom soaked up the familiar ambience, the distant crash of toppling pins coupled with excited cheers helping to calm his frazzled nerves. He had picked the local alley as a meeting place for a reason. While bowling was the root of his current problem (after all, Penhall would not have caught him in a compromising situation if they hadn’t resumed their Friday _boys’ night out_ tradition), Strikers Lane was also neutral ground. Over the years, it had become a favorite drinking hole for both officers, and they had spent many happy hours bowling a few frames while putting the world to rights. Therefore, it seemed the ideal location to have the difficult, _‘Oh, yeah, sorry I didn't tell you, but I’m gay,’_ conversation. Not that there was ever an ideal location to have such a deep and meaningful discussion, but for Tom, the public venue also afforded him some measure of protection. It was unlikely Doug would cause a scene in front of dozens of cheerful bowlers, and he needed him to stay calm so he could at least try to explain how he had (for want of a better term), _switched sides._ Friendship was the great equalizer, and he hoped Doug loved him enough to accept his choice of partners, and not turn his back on him just because he was in love with another man.

A somber expression passed over Tom’s face. His argument with Booker had left him rattled, and he wasn’t sure they even had a relationship anymore. To the casual observer, their fight was nothing more than a storm in a teacup, a petty quarrel brought on by jealousy and embarrassment. But for Tom, it had far more serious connotations. He was ready to give of himself, to surrender his body in a final act so he could break free from the last emotional shackle that kept him tied to the torment of his rape. He wanted to feel Booker inside him, loving him in a way he’d never known before, the intimacy of their coupling imbuing him with the strength of character he needed to banish his demons forever. But he wasn’t prepared to bestow the ultimate gift of trust on someone who was willing to walk out after a trivial argument. He needed an unwavering commitment, a mutual bond of love and respect. Under the circumstances, he didn't think it was too much to ask, especially given the trauma they had both faced. Anything less would cheapen their whole relationship. If he wanted a vacuous connection, he’d find himself a willing male partner, lie back, spread his legs and let the faceless stranger take control of his body. But it wasn’t about the sex. It was about kinship and a belief in love. He wanted Booker, but there could be no compromise, he only wanted him if he could have him completely. 

Taking a sip of his beer, he scanned the busy bar in search of his friend. While Booker was foremost on his mind, patching up his friendship with Doug took precedence. Theirs was a once-in-a-lifetime, emotionally intimate, non-sexual devotion, unlike any other relationship he had ever experienced and he couldn’t afford to lose him. After the shock of his rape, he had withdrawn from those closest to him, but he now realized, without his friend by his side, there was a gaping hole in his heart. Penhall provided the comic humor, giving him the opportunity to see the lighter side of life when he was caught in one of his deep-thinking, melancholy moods. Without him, he wasn’t even sure he would have made it through his first year at Jump Street, and he was certain he would have struggled to find the confidence to hone the skills required to be the proficient officer he had become. He was proud of his achievements, but a lot of the kudos belonged to the man who had, without complaint, partnered a nervous rookie and through gentle guidance, turned him into an outstanding cop. For the first time since his assault, he realized how much he missed being part of a team, but despite his fond retrospection, he was realistic enough to know it was doubtful he would ever return to the job that had once defined his existence. Too much had changed, _he_ had changed, and whether he liked it or not, time rarely stood still and waited for those who had lost their way.

“Hey, Hanson.”

The soft greeting caught Tom off guard, and a tremor shook his hand, the unexpected shock sending beer splashing over the rim of his glass. Flustered, he wiped at the spillage with his sleeve. “Jesus, Penhall,” he muttered. “Wear a bell next time.”

A grin formed on Doug’s lips, but it vanished when he noticed the bruise on Tom’s chin. “Shit, man, I’m sorry.”

Tom placed a self-conscious hand over his mouth. “Forget it,” he mumbled. “I know it was an accident.”

Relief shone from Penhall’s dark eyes, and sitting down, he poured a glass of beer from the pitcher on the table. The two men sat in silence for several minutes before Doug took the plunge and broke the ice, his tone painstakingly non-judgmental. “So, you and Booker, huh? Who’d have thought?”

An almost apologetic smile twitched at Tom’s lips. “Are you freaked? I mean, I know it’s a lot to—”

“Does he make you happy?” Doug interjected, his expressive brown eyes searching Tom’s face. 

Taken aback, Tom stared open-mouthed at his friend for several moments before answering. “Yeah,” he admitted in a quiet voice, his index finger rubbing at a furious pace over his upper lip. “He does.”

“Then we’re good,” Penhall replied in a rush of words.

It was not the emotionally charged conversation Tom had expected, but he understood Doug needed time to get his head around the startling news, and as long as they were still friends that was good enough for him. He knew the questions would come, and he’d prepared himself for the awkwardness they would both feel. But for the time being, he was content to let the matter drop and carry on as normal. It was one less thing for him to worry about, and without the secret of his bisexuality looming over his head, he could concentrate on getting his and Booker’s relationship back on track so once again, they could know happiness.

Picking up his glass, Tom raised it in the air. “To friendship.”

A look of gratitude passed over Penhall’s face, and clinking his glass against Tom’s, his lips tilted into a cheeky grin. “To friendship.”

**

When Tom returned home, he found a shadowy form lurking outside his apartment. Quickening his pace, the young officer approached the faceless man, but when recognition dawned, his expression darkened, and a heavy scowl wrinkled his brow. He was in no mood for a confrontation, and taking out his key, he inserted it into the lock. “You’re not welcome here.”

Jorge smiled, his expression relaxed and non-threatening. “Hey, I know I’m not your favorite person, and I’m sorry about… well, it was stupid of me to try and seduce Dennis. I know he loves you and—”

“What do you want?” Tom asked in a clipped voice as he pushed open the door. “I’m tired, and I wanna go to bed.”

“Just a few minutes of your time,” Jorge replied in a pleasant tone, “and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

The muscles in Tom’s jaw flexed as he pondered his options. But while he _wanted_ to tell the young Latino to fuck off, he knew he would be a hypocrite to do so. While he did not trust Jorge, he _was_ Booker’s friend, just as Doug was his, and he needed to put aside his jealousy and hear the young man out. And so, against his better judgment, he stepped back from the door. “Then I guess you’d better come in.”

Suppressing a grin, Jorge followed Tom into the apartment. He took a moment to look around, his skin prickling with annoyance at the perceived opulence of the young officer’s abode. Life wasn’t fair. Tom had everything, a nice home, loyal friends, and a man who loved him… _his_ man. _He_ should be the one living in a modern apartment with Booker, not Tom. He had far more sexual experience, and he could give Dennis the love and attention he deserved, whereas Tom was a novice who had no idea how to pleasure a man. But standing around bitching about the injustice of his life was counterproductive. He had a plan, and if all went well, he would be with his beloved Booker within a month.

“So, what’s all this about?” Tom asked, his tone gruff. “Dennis isn’t here, so if it’s him you’re really looking for—”

“It’s not,” Jorge replied with a smile. “Um, I don’t s’pose I could have a glass of water? I’m kinda nervous and as weird as it sounds, it helps me relax.”

The last thing Tom wanted was for the Latino to hang around any longer than he had to, but having made the decision to be civil, he returned a strained smile. “Sure. Have a seat.”

When Hanson turned away, Jorge made his move. Pulling out a vial of chloroform and a handkerchief, he opened the bottle and poured a measured amount of the liquid onto the folded cloth. In one swift movement, he placed the handkerchief over Tom’s nose and mouth and pressed down, smothering the young officer’s face in the soft, moist folds.

Tom’s eyes widened in surprise, and he instinctively fought against the persistent hand suffocating him. A sickly-sweet smell assaulted his nostrils, and he started to gag, his mind screaming in silent panic. He attempted to hold his breath, but after a minute of struggling, he gasped for air and within seconds he had inhaled enough of the compound for it to take effect. His body went numb, his vision and hearing began to fail and grabbing hold of Jorge’s wrist, he tried one last time to break free before he slipped beneath the veil of unconsciousness.


	48. Help Is a Four Letter Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **My apologies for the delay, life is hectic at the moment.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: When Tom returned home, he found a shadowy form lurking outside his apartment. Quickening his pace, the young officer approached the faceless man, but when recognition dawned, his expression darkened, and a heavy scowl wrinkled his brow. He was in no mood for a confrontation, and taking out his key, he inserted it into the lock. “You’re not welcome here.”_
> 
> _Jorge smiled, his expression relaxed and non-threatening. “Hey, I know I’m not your favorite person, and I’m sorry about… well, it was stupid of me to try and seduce Dennis. I know he loves you and—”_
> 
> _“What do you want?” Tom asked in a clipped voice as he pushed open the door. “I’m tired, and I wanna go to bed.”_
> 
> _“Just a few minutes of your time,” Jorge replied in a pleasant tone, “and then you’ll never have to see me again.”_
> 
> _The muscles in Tom’s jaw flexed as he pondered his options. But while he wanted to tell the young Latino to fuck off, he knew he would be a hypocrite to do so. While he did not trust Jorge, he was Booker’s friend, just as Doug was his, and he needed to put aside his jealousy and hear the young man out. And so, against his better judgment, he stepped back from the door. “Then I guess you’d better come in.”_
> 
> _Suppressing a grin, Jorge followed Tom into the apartment. He took a moment to look around, his skin prickling with annoyance at the perceived opulence of the young officer’s abode. Life wasn’t fair. Tom had everything, a nice home, loyal friends, and a man who loved him… his man. He should be the one living in a modern apartment with Booker, not Tom. He had far more sexual experience, and he could give Dennis the love and attention he deserved, whereas Tom was a novice who had no idea how to pleasure a man. But standing around bitching about the injustice of his life was counterproductive. He had a plan, and if all went well, he would be with his beloved Booker within a month._
> 
> _“So, what’s all this about?” Tom asked, his tone gruff. “Dennis isn’t here, so if it’s him you’re really looking for—”_
> 
> _“It’s not,” Jorge replied with a smile. “Um, I don’t s’pose I could have a glass of water? I’m kinda nervous and as weird as it sounds, it helps me relax.”_
> 
> _The last thing Tom wanted was for the Latino to hang around any longer than he had to, but having made the decision to be civil, he returned a strained smile. “Sure. Have a seat.”_
> 
> _When Hanson turned away, Jorge made his move. Pulling out a vial of chloroform and a handkerchief, he opened the bottle and poured a measured amount of the liquid onto the folded cloth. In one swift movement, he placed the handkerchief over Tom’s nose and mouth and pressed down, smothering the young officer’s face in the soft, moist folds._
> 
> _Tom’s eyes widened in surprise, and he instinctively fought against the persistent hand suffocating him. A sickly-sweet smell assaulted his nostrils, and he started to gag, his mind screaming in silent panic. He attempted to hold his breath, but after a minute of struggling, he gasped for air and within seconds he had inhaled enough of the compound for it to take effect. His body went numb, his vision and hearing began to fail and grabbing hold of Jorge’s wrist, he tried one last time to break free before he slipped beneath the veil of unconsciousness._

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35582265490/in/dateposted-public/)/p>

Trapped in a stupefied fog, Tom struggled to focus his eyes. When a smooth object pressed against his lips, he jerked his head away, a soft moan rumbling in the back of his throat. Water dribbled down his chin, soaking his tee shirt, but a persistent hand continued to tip the fluid down his throat. “Drink, my beautiful boy,” a distant male voice coaxed. “Then you can sleep.”

Too disoriented to fight, Tom swallowed the cool liquid like an obedient child. But the drink had a strange alkaline flavor and choking on the taste, he spat out the final mouthful. “Pig!” the man cried, his powerful hand slamming the glass against Tom’s teeth, the impact sending painful vibrations through the young officer’s facial nerves. “Why must you fight me?”

Tom tried to speak, but as the drug took control, his muscles relaxed, and he was unable to form any words. Panic constricted his chest, but the sensation was momentary. He was powerless against the GHB working its way through his system, leaving him a prisoner within his own body. And as his senses waned, he once again slipped toward oblivion, but this time, he welcomed the impending darkness.

**

The haunting melody of U2’s _‘With or Without You’_ belted out from the jukebox, the deafening volume drowning out the excited voices of the dozens of twenty-somethings standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the small, trendy bar. Downing a mouthful of scotch, Booker leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, his body swaying in rhythm to the hypnotic beat. He had come to the bar looking to get drunk so he could forget all about Tom and the agony of their doomed relationship. But rather than shrugging off his worries and having a good time, the alcohol had heightened his melancholy mood, the self-flagellating thoughts the song invoked adding to his depression. He was a fool, a Grade A, invidious fool who didn’t deserve the love of a man like Tom. Jealousy had always been his curse, although it presented more as arrogance because God forbid he should ever reveal his insecurities. He was far too proud to admit he succumbed to such a petty emotion. After all, it didn’t fit with his _devil may care_ persona. He was Dennis Booker, the badass cop who loved ‘em and left ‘em, not a pathetic romantic who had fallen hard for a pretty young officer who had suffered unspeakable torment.

“Penny for ‘em.”

Booker’s eyes flew open. “Huh?”

The good-looking man standing before him smiled, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “Is that, _huh,_ I don’t know what you mean?” he asked, flicking a stray strand of hair from his eyes. “Or _huh,_ I didn’t hear what you said?”

Pulling himself together, Booker returned a stiff smile. “Neither. I don’t give a fuck either way.”

Amused by the comment, the man’s grin broadened. Lifting a hand, he trailed a lazy finger down Booker’s muscular torso. “Mmm, you’re a feisty one. Look at you, all puffed up with a James Dean attitude, and yet here you are, standing in a corner all alone. Maybe I can change that. How ‘bout I buy you a drink?”

“How ‘bout you don’t,” Booker growled, his hand grasping the man’s wrist in a vicious hold. 

Fear flashed in the young man’s eyes, and pulling away, he rubbed at his arm. “Hey, man, what’s your problem? I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Booker muttered, and shoving past the man, he pushed through the crowd and exited the bar.

**

The uneven surface of the stone slabs dug into Tom’s hip, the sharpness of the cold, jagged edges sending a ripple of pain through his body. As his mind awakened, his discomfort intensified, and he shifted positions. His exposed skin scraped on the rough floor, eliciting a distressed moan. But with his pain came a slow awareness, and his senses began to tune into his environment. A damp, musty aroma assaulted his nostrils, and wrinkling his nose, he forced open his eyes. His vision blurred, further disorienting him, the nauseous sensation rolling through his naked body in bilious waves of confusion. He had no idea where he was, but his instincts told him he was in serious trouble, and blinking his eyes several times, he didn’t bother to wait until his sight cleared before pushing himself up into a sitting position. 

Without warning, the room started to spin, and clutching his head, he inhaled a deep breath, the cold, dank air burning his lungs. A hollow _drip, drip, drip,_ echoed somewhere in the shadows, the incessant rhythm hammering in his aching head, adding to his agitation. It was the resonance of gloom, an intrinsic part of the horror movie genre, and a shiver of fear chilled his bones. Once again, he found himself trapped within the realms of a living nightmare, but this time, he wasn’t sure he would get out alive.

“Are you okay?” 

The petulant voice, although vague, sounded familiar, and opening his eyes, Tom peered around the dark room. “Who’s there?” he demanded, the unmistakable quiver in his voice communicating the level of fear coursing through his veins.

When a shadowy figure appeared from a darkened corner, the hairs on Tom’s body rose to attention. “It’s me,” the male voice informed. “Jorge.”

A barrage of memories flooded Tom’s mind; inviting Jorge into his apartment… the young Latino asking for a drink… a suffocating hand over his face… the cloying scent of chloroform… a stranger’s voice… foul-tasting water… welcoming darkness…

“You drugged me,” he accused, his words sounding thick and clumsy as they passed through his chapped lips. “Why would you—”

“You stole him from me,” Jorge interjected by way of explanation. “He said he’d help me by punishing you.”

“He?” Tom queried, confusion creasing his brow. “Who are you talking about?”

Jorge shifted on his feet, his shoulders hunching forward in an evasive shrug. “I chloroformed you, but it was Mister Holland who gave you the drugs. I just want to be with Dennis, and this was the only—”

 _“Holland?”_ Tom exclaimed, the blood pounding in his ears making it difficult for him to think. 

Moving closer, Jorge squatted down and looked Tom in the eye. “I didn’t want it to turn out this way,” he confided in a quiet voice. “But you left me no choice. Why didn’t you just walk away?”

Unable to comprehend the Latino’s meaning, Tom shook his head in an attempt to shake off the side effects of the GHB clouding his mind. He knew he needed to keep his wits about him, but the drug had impeded his ability to concentrate, leaving him vulnerable. But his inner determination pushed through the confusion and although a struggle, he managed to articulate his thoughts. “Where am I?”

A frightened expression darkened Jorge’s countenance. “La mazmorra secreta,” he whispered, his gaze darting around the small cell. “Mister Holland uses it as a punishment when you misbehave.”

It was the perfect opportunity to plead his case, and seizing the chance, Tom grasped hold of the younger man’s hand, his dark eyes filling with panicked tears. “Why are you helping him? He’s going to rape me!”

Uncertainty flitted over Jorge’s face. “Y-You don’t know that,” he sputtered. “Mister Holland said he’d keep you and Dennis apart until I could—”

“He’s lying!” Tom cried out, the adrenaline pumping through his veins giving him the clarity of mind he needed to save himself from the horror of yet another sexual assault. “Look at me, Jorge, I’m naked! Why would he take my clothes if he only wanted to keep me away from Booker?”

When Jorge’s muscles stiffened, Tom could almost see the waves of tension rolling off his rigid body. It was a promising sign. By casting the seed of doubt, he had a chance of making it out of the dungeon unscathed, all he needed to do was to nurture the younger man’s growing dubiety.

Releasing Jorge’s hand, he placed his cold, stiff fingers on his nemesis’ knee and gave a gentle squeeze. “Holland hurt you, he hurt Dennis, and now he’s gonna hurt me. But we can stop him, Jorge. If you help me escape, we can stop him from hurting anyone else ever again.”

Jorge remained motionless for several moments before his shoulders slumped. “Dennis doesn’t love me, does he?”

It was not the response Tom had expected, and he knew he needed to proceed in a careful manner. But time was running out. With every passing minute, he feared Ingram Holland would appear and through unspeakable violence, snuff out the remaining light within his soul, leaving him to suffer in darkness.

“Jorge, listen to me,” he appealed, the tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of the younger man’s thigh. “This isn’t about you, or me, or Dennis, it’s about Ingram Holland. He holds people captive, and he abuses them, he _rapes_ them, and we can’t let him get away with it. _You_ can’t let him get away with it. Don’t you understand? He’s a psychopath, and he’ll keep doing this unless we stop him.”

A reflective shine glistened in Jorge’s dark eyes. “He took everything from me,” he whispered, his lower lip quivering with emotion. _“Everything.”_

In most instances, the awareness of hope did little more than vibrate inside Tom’s soul like soft butterfly wings. But this time it reached into his chest and grabbed him by the heart. “Then let’s make him pay,” he reinforced in an encouraging voice. “Let’s take the sonofabitch down.”

With a nod of his head, Jorge stood up and held out his hand. But just as Tom took hold of the slender fingers, he snatched them away, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why didn’t you report the Pi Taus who assaulted you?”

The question took Tom by surprise and lowering his arm, he fought to get his muddled thoughts in order. It was a pinnacle moment, a make or break situation and one carelessly spoken word could see him spiraling back toward a whole lot of trouble.

Using the craggy, stone wall for support, he rose to his feet, his body swaying for several seconds until he gained his balance. Aware of his nakedness, he proceeded to cover his genitals with one hand, but at the last moment, he decided to use his nudity to his advantage. Nothing screamed weakness more than the naked form voyeuristically on display in front of prying eyes. It was a gamble, but one he was prepared to take and swallowing down his embarrassment, he expressed his reasons in a soft, vulnerable voice. “Because they took everything away from me too, and like you, I didn’t have the courage to fight back. But I’m done with this shit. The Pi Tau brotherhood encourages their members to rape innocent men, and I’m gonna make sure every one of those sick bastards ends up in prison. So, are you with me, or are you still too afraid to stand up for what’s right?” 

Silence followed Tom’s speech, the only sound the faint _drip, drip_ of the broken pipe concealed somewhere within the stone walls. Each rhythmic drop brought him a step closer to his fate, and unable to contain his agitation, he cried out in frustration. “Jorge, _please!”_

Without speaking, Jorge kicked off his shoes and unzipped his khaki chinos. Shock caused Tom’s eyes to bulge, fear forcing a lump into his throat, and staggering backward, he fell against the wall and covered his crotch with his hands. “N-No!”

Seemingly unperturbed by the young officer’s distress, Jorge proceeded to take off his pants, and without batting an eyelid, he held them out in front of him. “Here,” he instructed in a flat voice. “Put these on.”

Relief turned Tom’s legs to rubber, and although desperate to hide his nudity and get the hell out of Dodge, it took him a moment before he felt steady enough to let go of the wall. The vigorous thumping of his heart spurred him on, and snatching the pants from Jorge’s hand, he struggled into them and pulled up the zipper. “Let’s go.”

Jorge hesitated for a moment before slipping on his shoes. It was a sobering moment, the moment he realized he would never be with the man he loved. But after casting one last look around the room that still haunted his nightmares, he took Tom by the hand and led him up the rickety stairs to freedom.


	49. Love Doesn’t Means You Never Have To Say You're Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Jorge remained motionless for several moments before his shoulders slumped. “Dennis doesn’t love me, does he?”_
> 
> _It was not the response Tom had expected, and he knew he needed to proceed in a careful manner. But time was running out. With every passing minute, he feared Ingram Holland would appear and through unspeakable violence, snuff out the remaining light within his soul, leaving him to suffer in darkness._
> 
> _“Jorge, listen to me,” he appealed, the tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of the younger man’s thigh. “This isn’t about you, or me, or Dennis, it’s about Ingram Holland. He holds people captive, and he abuses them, he rapes them, and we can’t let him get away with it. You can’t let him get away with it. Don’t you understand? He’s a psychopath, and he’ll keep doing this unless we stop him.”_
> 
> _A reflective shine glistened in Jorge’s dark eyes. “He took everything from me,” he whispered, his lower lip quivering with emotion. “Everything.”_
> 
> _In most instances, the awareness of hope did little more than vibrate inside Tom’s soul like soft butterfly wings. But this time it reached into his chest and grabbed him by the heart. “Then let’s make him pay,” he reinforced in an encouraging voice. “Let’s take the sonofabitch down.”_
> 
> _With a nod of his head, Jorge stood up and held out his hand. But just as Tom took hold of the slender fingers, he snatched them away, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why didn’t you report the Pi Taus who assaulted you?”_
> 
> _The question took Tom by surprise and lowering his arm, he fought to get his muddled thoughts in order. It was a pinnacle moment, a make or break situation and one carelessly spoken word could see him spiraling back toward a whole lot of trouble._
> 
> _Using the craggy, stone wall for support, he rose to his feet, his body swaying for several seconds until he gained his balance. Aware of his nakedness, he proceeded to cover his genitals with one hand, but at the last moment, he decided to use his nudity to his advantage. Nothing screamed weakness more than the naked form voyeuristically on display in front of prying eyes. It was a gamble, but one he was prepared to take and swallowing down his embarrassment, he expressed his reasons in a soft, vulnerable voice. “Because they took everything away from me too, and like you, I didn’t have the courage to fight back. But I’m done with this shit. The Pi Tau brotherhood encourages their members to rape innocent men, and I’m gonna make sure every one of those sick bastards ends up in prison. So, are you with me, or are you still too afraid to stand up for what’s right?”_
> 
> _Silence followed Tom’s speech, the only sound the faint drip, drip of the broken pipe concealed somewhere within the stone walls. Each rhythmic drop brought him a step closer to his fate, and unable to contain his agitation, he cried out in frustration. “Jorge, please!”_
> 
> _Without speaking, Jorge kicked off his shoes and unzipped his khaki chinos. Shock caused Tom’s eyes to bulge, fear forcing a lump into his throat, and staggering backward, he fell against the wall and covered his crotch with his hands. “N-No!”_
> 
> _Seemingly unperturbed by the young officer’s distress, Jorge proceeded to take off his pants, and without batting an eyelid, he held them out in front of him. “Here,” he instructed in a flat voice. “Put these on.”_
> 
> _Relief turned Tom’s legs to rubber, and although desperate to hide his nudity and get the hell out of Dodge, it took him a moment before he felt steady enough to let go of the wall. The vigorous thumping of his heart spurred him on, and snatching the pants from Jorge’s hand, he struggled into them and pulled up the zipper. “Let’s go.”_
> 
> _Jorge hesitated for a moment before slipping on his shoes. It was a sobering moment, the moment he realized he would never be with the man he loved. But after casting one last look around the room that still haunted his nightmares, he took Tom by the hand and led him up the rickety stairs to freedom._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35161368273/in/dateposted-public/)

After his confrontation at the bar, Booker's consciousness shifted to self-reflection, the intensity of his resentment decreasing as his anxiety levels escalated in slow, measured bursts. There was no denying it, Tom had not only infected his heart, but he had also infected every fiber of his being, leaving him unprepared as a rising surge of emotion consumed his mind, body, and spirit. The Booker of old would have taken the attractive man back to his apartment and screwed his brains out, but the new and improved Booker had no interest in casual sex. He wanted Tom, not just as a sexual partner, but as a friend and confidant, someone he could share his innermost thoughts with when he needed advice or a sympathetic ear. He didn’t want to spend his life alone, and with the effects of the alcohol calming his agitated mind, their fight now seemed trivial, a superfluous response born from jealousy and embarrassment. In the heat of the moment he had overreacted, his protectiveness coming to the fore, his need to coddle Tom ultimately pushing him away. It was a foolish mistake and one he knew he might have to live with for the rest of his life if he didn’t make things right. 

And so, although it pained him to admit he was wrong, he made the decision to ignore his ego, apologize for being a monumental pain in the ass, and beg forgiveness, even if he had to do so on bended knee.

Arriving back at Tom’s apartment, he hesitated outside the door, uncertainty churning his stomach. But eventually, he found his nerve, and lifting his hand, he rapped on the wooden paneling.

When the door swung open, a rush of adrenaline heightened his senses. Since his rape, it was unusual for Tom to leave the door unlocked, and with his mind on high alert, the dark-haired officer cautiously entered the apartment. But bitter disappointment soon replaced the fear racing through his heart. While not expecting Tom to rush into his arms, apologies tumbling from his soft, sensuous lips, he had, at the very least, expected him to be home. The anticlimax of finding the apartment empty brought forth another wave of melancholy, and his head and shoulders slumped with disillusionment. It was obvious Tom was still angry with him, and he was making a statement by staying out with Penhall. Not that Booker could blame him. He’d behaved like a prick, and he deserved the emotional punishment.

With his need to get Tom off his mind, he walked over to the window and lifting up the sash, he stared down at the empty street below. Intoxicated laughter drifted on the cooling November breeze, the sound coming from several blocks away, the raucous merriment shattering the night’s peace. But the drunken revelry only added to his feelings of loneliness, and in a fit of temper, he slammed down the window, the force shaking the panes of glass within the wooden sash bars. It was then he decided he needed another drink, and not caring he was raiding Tom’s liquor, he headed for the kitchen in search of some whiskey.

But just as he entered the kitchenette, the sound of a key turning in the lock had his head spinning toward the door. Nervous expectation and the promise of reconciliation had him agonizing about how to react—play it cool or rush in first and offer an apology? But the words forming on his lips remained unspoken as Tom walked through the door dressed only in a pair of khaki pants, followed by Jorge, sans pants.

“Hey, Dennis,” Tom muttered, his greeting less than enthusiastic. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Booker’s eyes narrowed, his mounting suspicion pulling his mouth into a thin, tight line. “Obviously,” he replied in a terse voice. 

Weariness projected from Tom’s dark eyes. “Don’t start. It’s not what it looks like.”

“Then what is it?” Booker snapped, his angry gaze flitting from Tom to Jorge and back again. “You two just decided to meet up and remove your clothing?”

Jorge stepped forward, a nervous tic twitching the corner of his mouth. “Don’t blame Tom, it’s not his fault.”

Booker lunged forward, his face contorting, his whole body trembling with a vengeful anger. “STAY OUT OF IT! YOU'VE CAUSED ENOUGH—”

“For God’s sake, Booker!” Tom interjected, his fatigue manifesting into irritability. “If you’d just stop shouting, maybe we can all sit down and talk about this like adults.”

Stunned into silence, Booker took a step back. He watched with growing animosity as Tom motioned for Jorge to sit down before once again, finding his voice. “If you’re gonna tell me something I don’t wanna hear, don’t, okay? I don’t feel like getting my heart ripped out right now.”

Taking a seat beside Jorge, Tom studied Booker’s resentful frown. “Sit down, Dennis,” he instructed with a noticeable sigh.

Only when he was seated did Booker notice the paleness of Tom’s face, the sallow color of his skin highlighted by a second faint bruise adorning the corner of his mouth. “What happened to you?” he asked, his clipped tone disguising his concern. “Did someone else hit you?”

Tom rubbed a self-conscious hand over the tender spot on his lip. “I don’t really remember. I s’pose they did.”

Jorge’s face reddened and turning to face Tom, he offered an apologetic smile. “It was Holland. He smashed the glass into your face when you—”

“HOLLAND!” Booker exclaimed, shock coiling through his body, the pulsating waves of fury forcing him to his feet. “What the hell were you doing with Holland?”

Fear drained the color from Jorge’s face, his dark eyes growing large with distress. “I’m sorry, Dennis, I didn’t mean to hurt Tom, I just wanted to be with you.”

With a primordial yell, Booker launched himself at the young Latino, and grabbing him by his shirt front, he hauled him to his feet. “WHAT DID YOU DO?” he screamed into the younger man’s startled face. “WHAT THE _FUCK_ DID YOU DO?”

Afraid Booker would lose control and beat the frightened pool boy into a bloody pulp, Tom jumped up, and grabbing his lover by the arm, he yanked him away. The young officer’s reaction left Booker even more agitated, and spinning around, he confronted him face-to-face, his eyes flashing with anger. “WHY ARE YOU PROTECTING HIM?” he yelled. “YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM!”

Annoyance pulled Tom’s mouth into a furious scowl. “Because he’s your friend, and even though Holland brainwashed him into believing the two of you could be together, he chose to help me. So why don’t you shut the fuck up and listen to what we have to say.”

“Did he touch you?” Booker asked through gritted teeth, an indelible image of Holland’s smooth hands roaming over Tom’s naked body forming in his mind. “Because I swear to God, Tommy, I’ll kill that perverted sonofabitch if he so much as laid a finger on you.”

Tom’s face paled, his eyes widening in shock, the dark orbs framing his beautiful face. With the effects of the drug still in his system, it hadn’t occurred to him that he might have already fallen victim to another sexual assault. His stomach churned, and meeting Booker’s furious gaze, he fought to control his rising nausea. “I-I don’t know,” he faltered. “Oh God, Dennis, I don’t know.”

Booker stepped toward Jorge, his mouth set in a grim line. “Did he?”

Jorge lowered his gaze, his cheeks flushing red with shame. “I don’t know. I wasn’t allowed into the dungeon until Mister Holland left for his meeting. By then, Tom was already naked.”

Hot, bilious fluid rose into Tom’s throat, and clamping a hand over his mouth, he staggered backward and fell into a chair. Closing his eyes, he swallowed down the vile liquid, the acidity burning his throat. But he ignored the foul taste, and furrowing his brow in concentration, his mind tuned into his body’s frequency, searching for any signs of pain or discomfort. If Holland _had_ penetrated him anally, he was confident he would know. But after several moments, he came to the conclusion the tycoon hadn’t raped him, but that did not mean he hadn’t taken his pleasure in other ways. The GHB had left him with no memory, and for all he knew, Holland could have fondled him or forced him to perform oral sex, both of which had him gagging with revulsion. Through no fault of his own, he had become a defenseless puppet, and knowing Holland’s past form, he was certain whatever had occurred, the mogul would have videoed it for future entertainment.

When a loving hand squeezed his shoulder, Tom looked up, his dark eyes clouding with misery. “I don’t remember anything,” he admitted in a strained voice. “He could have done other things, but I don’t think he… it doesn’t feel like he…”

“Shhh,” Booker consoled, his hand stroking Tom’s tousled hair. “Try not to think about it, it’ll just drive you crazy.”

Tom pushed Booker’s hand away. “I need a shower,” he muttered to no one in particular, and standing up, he hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door closed with a resounding bang.

After witnessing the uncomfortable exchange, Jorge edged cautiously toward the apartment’s main door. “I should go.”

“Wait,” Booker instructed, his tone cold and unyielding. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.”

Jorge shifted on his feet, his stance nervous and awkward. “Can I have some pants?” he asked. “I gave mine to Tom.”

Narrowing his eyes, Booker pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

A moody expression passed over the young Latino’s face, but he reluctantly obeyed. When Booker returned with a pair of sweats, he stood up and pulled them on. After sitting back down, he attempted to explain his actions in a soft, doleful voice. “You’ve gotta believe me, I didn’t want him to get hurt. I just wanted to be with you and Mister Holland said he’d help me.”

Booker cast an eye at the closed bathroom door. He could hear the sound of running water, and he felt an overwhelming urge to run into the steam-filled room, gather Tom in his arms and kiss away his pain and uncertainty. But first, he needed answers and taking a seat next to Jorge, he reined in his anger and attempted to speak in a calm, non-threatening manner. “But he did get hurt. You and I both know Holland did things to Tom, and just because he has no memory of them doesn’t mean it won’t affect him. I don’t love you, Jorge, I’m in love with Tommy. I’ll always be in love with Tommy. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m telling you now, _nothing_ you do will ever change my mind. Ever. I’m sorry you misread the signals, but I don’t think I could’ve been any clearer. You need to move on and forget about me because no matter what you think, you and I are never going to be together.”

A single tear formed in the corner of Jorge’s eyes, the opaque droplet clinging to his lashes before sliding unchecked down his smooth, bronze cheek. “I know,’ he whispered, his lower lip trembling with emotion. “I know you don’t love me, and I don’t even know why I let Mister Holland talk me into helping him kidnap Tom. Deep down, I think I knew he only did it so he could abuse him, but a part of me didn’t care. A part of me thought he deserved it.”

The confession sent a surge of raging anger through Booker’s body, stiffening his muscles. But he managed to contain his temper, and instead of berating the broken man sitting before him, he offered him some much-needed advice. “You need to stay away from Holland. He’s manipulating you, you know that, right?”

Jorge sniffed loudly, his expression bereft of hope, his demeanor alone and yearning. “But he’s the only person who’s ever loved me. Without him, I’m nothing.”

A rush of genuine sadness expelled the anger coursing through Booker’s veins, and placing an arm around the Latino’s shoulders, he gave a gentle squeeze. “You _are_ something, you just haven’t been given any opportunities. And the way Holland treats you has nothing to do with love, Jorge, it’s abuse, and he should be in prison.”

“That’s what Tom said,” Jorge mumbled. “He said he wanted to report all the Pi Taus for what they’ve—”

“Tom said that?” Booker interrupted, his forehead wrinkling in surprise.

Wiping away a stray tear, Jorge nodded. “He said we should take the sonofabitch down, but I didn’t believe him. I asked him why he didn’t file charges when he was raped, and he said the Pi Taus took everything from him, and like me, he didn’t have the courage to fight back. But he said he was tired of all their shit, and he wanted to make them pay. That’s when I helped him escape because I knew he’d suffered like me and I didn’t want to put him through that kinda hell again. I guess I didn’t want him to end up a screw-up like me.”

“You’re not a screw-up,” Booker reassured in a soft voice. “You just need guidance. I’m sorry I abandoned you, I should’ve been a better friend.”

A hesitant smile tilted Jorge’s lips. “Maybe we can start over, the three of us, I mean. Maybe we can all be friends?”

Although not certain his lover would agree, Booker returned an encouraging smile. “Maybe. But I really need to talk to Tom now, make sure he’s all right. Do you need money for a cab?”

With a shake of his head, Jorge rose to his feet. “Tell Tom I’m sorry. I know I don’t deserve his forgiveness, but tell him anyway, okay?”

Booker responded with a nod of his head. He watched in silence as Jorge exited the apartment before turning his attention to the bathroom door. He had no idea how he was going to comfort Tom, all he knew for certain was that he owed his lover an apology for behaving like a jealous fool. The only problem was, after everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure Tom was ready to forgive him because once again, he had failed to protect him from the big, bad wolf.


	50. Sometimes You’ve Gotta Fall Before You Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: A single tear formed in the corner of Jorge’s eyes, the opaque droplet clinging to his lashes before sliding unchecked down his smooth, bronze cheek. “I know,’ he whispered, his lower lip trembling with emotion. “I know you don’t love me, and I don’t even know why I let Mister Holland talk me into helping him kidnap Tom. Deep down, I think I knew he only did it so he could abuse him, but a part of me didn’t care. A part of me thought he deserved it.”_
> 
> _The confession sent a surge of raging anger through Booker’s body, stiffening his muscles. But he managed to contain his temper, and instead of berating the broken man sitting before him, he offered him some much-needed advice. “You need to stay away from Holland. He’s manipulating you, you know that, right?”_
> 
> _Jorge sniffed loudly, his expression bereft of hope, his demeanor alone and yearning. “But he’s the only person who’s ever loved me. Without him, I’m nothing.”_
> 
> _A rush of genuine sadness expelled the anger coursing through Booker’s veins, and placing an arm around the Latino’s shoulders, he gave a gentle squeeze. “You are something, you just haven’t been given any opportunities. And the way Holland treats you has nothing to do with love, Jorge, it’s abuse, and he should be in prison.”_
> 
> _“That’s what Tom said,” Jorge mumbled. “He said he wanted to report all the Pi Taus for what they’ve—”_
> 
> _“Tom said that?” Booker interrupted, his forehead wrinkling in surprise._
> 
> _Wiping away a stray tear, Jorge nodded. “He said we should take the sonofabitch down, but I didn’t believe him. I asked him why he didn’t file charges when he was raped, and he said the Pi Taus took everything from him, and like me, he didn’t have the courage to fight back. But he said he was tired of all their shit, and he wanted to make them pay. That’s when I helped him escape because I knew he’d suffered like me and I didn’t want to put him through that kinda hell again. I guess I didn’t want him to end up a screw-up like me.”_
> 
> _“You’re not a screw-up,” Booker reassured in a soft voice. “You just need guidance. I’m sorry I abandoned you, I should’ve been a better friend.”_
> 
> _A hesitant smile tilted Jorge’s lips. “Maybe we can start over, the three of us, I mean. Maybe we can all be friends?”_
> 
> _Although not certain his lover would agree, Booker returned an encouraging smile. “Maybe. But I really need to talk to Tom now, make sure he’s all right. Do you need money for a cab?”_
> 
> _With a shake of his head, Jorge rose to his feet. “Tell Tom I’m sorry. I know I don’t deserve his forgiveness, but tell him anyway, okay?”_
> 
> _Booker responded with a nod of his head. He watched in silence as Jorge exited the apartment before turning his attention to the bathroom door. He had no idea how he was going to comfort Tom, all he knew for certain was that he owed his lover an apology for behaving like a jealous fool. The only problem was, after everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure Tom was ready to forgive him because once again, he had failed to protect him from the big, bad wolf._

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35161453123/in/dateposted-public/)/p>

Tom stood under the shower, his head bent forward, the warm, therapeutic water sluicing over his tired, aching shoulders. While he had no memory of Holland abusing him, he could not dispel the myriad of disturbing images haunting his mind. Ingram Holland was a predator, a man who stalked his prey for the sole purpose of satisfying his sexual appetite. Whether the sick sonofabitch had touched him, photographed him, or videoed him made no difference. Whatever the scenario, he felt violated, and just knowing he had starred in one of the mogul’s sexual fantasies caused him as much mental anguish as his rape.

Although not convinced he had managed to wash away whatever remained of Holland’s touch, the young officer turned off the faucets and stepped out of the cubicle. The effects of the drug had left him with a headache, and closing his eyes against the brightness of the overhead light, he dabbed at the droplets of water mottling his flesh. As the towel moved over his body, a clear image flashed into his head, a conscious awareness of Holland’s fingers moving over his cock. His mind latched onto the memory, bringing the flashback to life as effectively as watching a movie unfold on the big screen. The muddled puzzle pieces moved through his mind, eventually fitting together to form a startling reality. The loving strokes coaxing his cock to hardness and the vile, taunting words whispered in his ear were not a dream. Holland _had_ molested him, and no matter how hard he tried to wipe the vision from his memory, he knew the truth would haunt him forever.

The towel dropped from between his fingers, and with a stomach-churning heave, he bent over and threw up in the sink. 

“Oh God,” he moaned, the stench of vomit lingering in his nostrils. “Why do they keep doing this to me?”

A loud knock jerked his head upright, and wiping a shaky hand over his mouth, he turned toward the door. An expectant silence hung in the air, adding to his anxiety. He briefly considered staying quiet, but he knew if he didn’t answer, Booker would find a way to get in. The last thing he wanted was another altercation, and realizing resistance was futile, he cleared the remaining vomit from his throat. 

“Just a minute,” he called out, hoping against hope the tremor in his voice hadn’t betrayed him. Turning on the faucet, he rinsed out his mouth and washed away the putrid mess staining the ceramic sink. After briefly scrutinizing his face in the mirror, searching for any telltale signs of distress, he pulled on a clean tee shirt and boxers. It wasn’t easy to portray a sense of calm when his world was once again imploding, but he remembered the deep breathing technique shown to him by his therapist and closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply through his nose. Several moments later, he felt ready to face his friend, and forcing a smile to his lips, he opened the door.

The paleness of Tom’s face drew an immediate response from Booker and reaching out a hand, the dark-haired officer stroked a loving finger down his lover’s chiseled cheek. “Are you okay?”

Overcome with emotion, Tom’s inner resolve weakened, sending a wave of emotion rippling through his body. A single tear leaked unchecked from his eye, winding its way down his haggard face. His throat worked noisily as he fought back a sob, the depth of his anguish shining from his beautiful, brown eyes. “I can't do this anymore,” he choked. “It’s killing me.”

Booker’s hand stilled, his lover’s words sending a cold bolt of fear shooting through his heart. _“This?”_ he whispered, his grief catching in his throat. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Perplexed, Tom’s eyebrows pulled together, shock forcing his anguish back to a manageable level. “What?” he sniffed, his fingers swiping at the opaque droplet glistening on his cheek. “Why would you think that? I meant I’m tired of feeling like a victim.”

The memory of Jorge’s revelation had Booker’s eyes widening in surprise. He hadn’t given the young Latino’s news much credence when he’d disclosed Tom wanted to put the Pi Taus in jail, but he now found a cautious hope swelling inside his chest. “Are you saying you want to lay charges against McCarter and the others?” he asked, hardly daring to believe his wish might become a reality.

Tired of the emotional baggage weakening his spirit, Tom drew back his shoulders, a defiant glint temporarily masking the pain in his eyes. “Yeah, I am. I wanna take the fuckers down, including Holland.” 

While Tom’s announcement sent a shiver of satisfaction down Booker’s spine, he understood his role wasn’t as a police officer but as a friend. He could not wait to see the smug smiles wiped off the Pi Taus’ arrogant, privileged faces, but for the case to go smoothly, he needed to take a step back and not let his hotheadedness ruin Tom’s chances of a conviction. It wouldn’t be easy, but for Tom to feel in control, he knew he needed to tone down his impetuous nature and let his lover take charge. He would, however, be in his corner, every step of the way, supporting him the only other way he knew how, with unwavering love and understanding. His lover would face many ups and downs, all of which would influence their relationship, but Booker didn’t care. What was important was Tom’s happiness, and the only way the young officer would ever be truly free was to see his rapists behind bars.

Swallowing down the emotional lump rising in this throat, Booker stepped forward and pulling Tom into his arms, he hugged him tight. “Oh, baby,” he murmured. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Fresh tears glistened in Tom’s eyes, but this time, they did not fall. He was done crying. Instead, he intended to stand tall and draw strength from the man who was changing his life for the better.

After returning the hug, Tom carefully extricated himself from Booker’s hold. With a small smile, he took him by the hand and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. He knew what he was about to say would upset his lover, but having made up his mind, he felt the need to get it off his chest. “The only way I can do this is if I quit the force,” he revealed in a soft voice, a nervous tic twitching his lips. “I don’t want the newspapers reporting this, and they will if they know I’m a cop.”

Booker’s immediate reaction was to protest, to tell his lover he was making a huge mistake and he could file charges against the Pi Taus without giving up the job he adored. But when he saw the look in Tom’s eyes, the desperate, pleading look, begging him to understand, he closed his mouth. Although conflicted, he realized it wasn’t his fight, it was Tom’s, and he needed to accept his decision and support him without question.

Unsure of Booker’s reaction, Tom’s left thumb found its way into his mouth. Chewing on a jagged piece of nail, his eyes searched the dark-haired officer’s face for answers. “Are you freaked?” he mumbled against his hand. “It’s just I—”

“Shhh,” Booker murmured, his hand gently liberating Tom’s thumb from his mouth. “I’m not freaked, you just kinda took me by surprise. I meant what I said, I’m _really_ proud of you, Tommy. Those assholes won’t know what hit ‘em once we’ve finished with ‘em.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tom replied absently, his voice lacking conviction. 

Although disappointed in his lover’s lack of enthusiasm, the impassive response didn’t cause Booker any alarm. It was early days, and he knew his baby well enough to know his dogged determination would shine through and he would find the courage he needed to take the bastards down.

The two men stood in silence, the enormity of the situation weighing heavily on their shoulders. Sensing Tom wasn’t in the mood to strategize, Booker changed the subject. “So, how did Penhall take the news? Do I need to watch my back?”

Tom’s mouth twitched at the corner as his eyes darted nervously to the floor. “I dunno,” he muttered with a shrug of his shoulders. “I guess he’s okay with it. He didn’t really say much, he just asked if I was happy.”

Booker’s heart began to beat in a quick, uneasy rhythm, the irregular _thump, thump,_ sending tremors of anxiety through his limbs, leaving him jittery. Although he _thought_ he knew the answer, he felt an inexplicable need for clarification. “And are you?” 

It wasn’t often Tom got to witness Booker’s vulnerable side. The dark-haired officer was so adept at hiding his insecurities, he rarely sought validation from anyone. But the night’s events had obviously rattled him, taking its toll on his self-esteem. It was a breakthrough of sorts for Tom. For the first time in their relationship, it was Booker seeking reassurance, and knowing _he_ could finally be the one to offer a comforting hand was just what he needed to bolster his confidence. He was finally Booker’s emotional equal.

With a slow, engaging smile, the young officer stepped forward. “What do _you_ think?” he murmured, his lips brushing over Booker’s worried pout. But in spite of his best efforts, the dark-haired officer remained unresponsive, and concerned by the odd behavior, Tom stepped back, his expression sober. “You know I can’t do any of this without you, right?”

But they weren’t the words Booker wanted to hear. “Is _that_ why you stay with me?” he pushed, unable to let the matter drop. “Do you just see me as your protector?”

“No!” Tom exclaimed, frustration rolling off him in waves, and taking a step back, he raked his fingers through his damp hair. “Is that what you think? You think I’m just using you until I feel safe? Jesus, Dennis, I _LOVE_ you! Why don’t you believe that?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Booker yelled, his voice rising in anguish. “I want to believe it, but when I think of _him_ touching you, I just—”

“So, this is _my_ fault?” Tom choked, disbelief widening his eyes. “Holland kidnaps and assaults me, but _I’m_ the one to blame? Well, fuck you, Booker. If it weren’t for you, Ingram Holland wouldn’t have given a flying fuck about me! You did this to me! YOU!”

With the truth now out in the open, Booker lost what remained of his fortitude. His face crumpled, pain radiating from his dark eyes. He _was_ the one to blame, not Tom. If he hadn’t sought out Holland, his lover would not have had to endure another assault.

Choking on his distress, the dark-haired officer covered his face in his hands. “Oh, God,” he cried, his shoulders shuddering with each racking sob. “I’m _sorry!_ I’m so… fucking... _SORRY!”_

Regret softened Tom’s eyes. He hadn’t meant to accuse his lover, his emotions were so screwed up, he had reacted without thinking. Even Jorge wasn’t to blame, despite the role he’d played. There was only one person the young officer held accountable, and that was Ingram Holland. The mogul was a psychopathic predator, and after witnessing Booker’s breakdown, he was more determined than ever to put the sonofabitch behind bars.

Moved by the unashamed display of grief, Tom wrapped his arms around Booker’s quivering shoulders and drew him in close. “No, _I’m_ sorry,” he whispered against the smooth skin just below his lover’s ear. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

When Booker remained silent, he placed a hand under his chin and tenderly tilted his head. Tears glistened in the dark-haired officer’s eyes, the unshed droplets shimmering in the harsh, overhead light. For Tom, the sight was so distressing, he felt a physical pain stab at his heart. The emotion spread throughout his body, working its way into his throat in the form of a lump. But he quickly swallowed it down. It was time for him to stand up and prove to Booker his self-worth. He would not buckle under the strain. Instead, he would show his lover he was ready to fight for their relationship.

“This is what Holland wants,” he warned in a low voice. “He’s manipulating us, hoping we’ll turn on each other. But our love is stronger than that, Dennis. We can’t let him win. We can’t let his sick, perverted games tear us apart.”

The profound statement had its desired effect and wiping the tears from his eyes, Booker sniffed loudly. “You’re right. Jesus, I’m such a fucking idiot. I should have known he’d try to play us against each other, and I guess he succeeded.”

Tom’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “No, he didn’t. He may _think_ he did, but he didn’t.”

Time did an about face. These were the words Booker _wanted_ to hear, and placing his hands on either side of Tom’s face, he gazed lovingly into his eyes. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Relief eased the tension in Tom’s body, and his face relaxed into a smile. “Just don’t do it again,” he joked, pleased that the fight was over.

The emotion of the evening took its toll on Booker, and he stifled a yawn. “Let’s go to bed. I’ve had enough of Ingram Holland for one day.”

A shiver ran down the length of Tom’s spine. “Yeah, me too,” he muttered.

However, the recollection of Holland’s touch remained forever ingrained within the young officer’s soul, and although he knew he should open up and talk about it, he made a silent vow never to disclose the memory to Booker. After all, what his lover didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.


	51. Everything I Do, I Do It For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I'm back :) I hope everyone enjoyed the festive season. I know it's a little late, but I'd to wish you all a happy and healthy 2017.**
> 
> **I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm going on holiday again next week (yay), so there won't be any updates for at least two weeks.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: “This is what Holland wants,” he warned in a low voice. “He’s manipulating us, hoping we’ll turn on each other. But our love is stronger than that, Dennis. We can’t let him win. We can’t let his sick, perverted games tear us apart.”_
> 
> _The profound statement had its desired effect and wiping the tears from his eyes, Booker sniffed loudly. “You’re right. Jesus, I’m such a fucking idiot. I should have known he’d try to play us against each other, and I guess he succeeded.”_
> 
> _Tom’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “No, he didn’t. He may think he did, but he didn’t.”_
> 
> _Time did an about face. These were the words Booker wanted to hear, and placing his hands on either side of Tom’s face, he gazed lovingly into his eyes. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”_
> 
> _Relief eased the tension in Tom’s body, and his face relaxed into a smile. “Just don’t do it again,” he joked, pleased that the fight was over._
> 
> _The emotion of the evening took its toll on Booker, and he stifled a yawn. “Let’s go to bed. I’ve had enough of Ingram Holland for one day.”_
> 
> _A shiver ran down the length of Tom’s spine. “Yeah, me too,” he muttered._
> 
> _However, the recollection of Holland’s touch remained forever ingrained within the young officer’s soul, and although he knew he should open up and talk about it, he made a silent vow never to disclose the memory to Booker. After all, what his lover didn’t know couldn’t hurt him._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35800745952/in/dateposted-public/)

**The following morning**

The gentle resonance of Booker’s snoring sounded throughout the bedroom. Tom’s breathing fell into an unconscious rhythm with the soft, nasal rasp, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale of air. Trapped in the REM cycle of sleep, he dreamed of the life he would share with Booker, the life he knew was his destiny. He felt safe knowing the dark-haired officer was by his side, safer than he’d ever felt since becoming an adult, and it wasn’t because Dennis was an outstanding cop. It was the intensity of his lover’s devotion that cocooned him, the love lavished upon him wrapping him in a protective shroud, shielding him from the memories of his assaults. He could not remember ever feeling so loved, so _unified._ When he was with Booker, his world was complete. There was no denying the volatility of their relationship, but they were a good match, like peanut butter and jelly, oddly complimentary, in spite of their differing textures. He couldn’t explain it, being with Booker just felt _right,_ and he knew he would never have found the courage to take down the Pi Taus without the dark-haired officer by his side.

As the darkness of night retreated beneath the ethereal splendor of dawn’s amber hues, Tom’s eyelids fluttered. Within minutes, the rising sun began to filter through the open window, the warm rays casting dancing sunbeams over the young officer’s upturned face. The harshness of the light immediately disrupted his slumber, and with a disgruntled moan, he threw a protective arm over his eyes. But it was too late, the damage was done, and resigned to his fate, he lowered his arm and opened his eyes.

Stifling a yawn, Tom lay on his back for several minutes while enjoying the peaceful solitude. He refused to destroy the tranquility of the moment by thinking about his recent assault. Instead, he focused on the positive aspects of his life. It had taken two months for him to reach a turning point, two long, agonizing months of indecision and heartache. His fixation on his rape had almost cost him his sanity, and with it, his future. But his mind was clearer now, and he knew he needed to keep moving forward, one wobbly step at a time until he reached his ultimate goal; sending the Pi Taus to prison. Their downfall wouldn’t eradicate the past, his assaults had happened, and nothing could change that fact. But it _would_ give him a level of satisfaction knowing they would face the fear of rape every day of their incarceration, thus affording him some degree of closure to the worst chapter of his life. He doubted he would ever heal completely, the scars ran too deep, but he did believe he had a future, which in itself was a breakthrough of sorts.

With a contented smile, he rolled onto his side. His gaze immediately fell on Booker’s muscular chest, and he stared at the defined ridges, mesmerized by their perfection. Amused by his enthrallment, his grin widened. He had always been a _boob_ man, irrespective of size or shape. In his mind, the ability to nurture through one’s body the life-giving milk an infant needed for survival was the defining aspect of womanhood. It was what made women unique, and he loved them for that. But a lot had changed in the last few months, and he no longer missed the soft, inviting mounds he had once so revered. He now found himself drawn to the chiseled physique of the masculine form, and Booker was a textbook Adonis. With his movie star good looks and powerful build, the dark-haired officer oozed sex appeal. That Tom was now attracted to the flat smoothness of a male chest rather than the supple curves of a woman’s breast affirmed how much he had changed. The realization had him once again questioning his sexuality. Perhaps he _wasn’t_ bisexual after all, but one-hundred percent gay. Or maybe Booker was the only man he was attracted to, and if—God forbid—they broke up, he would go back to being heterosexual. It was a puzzling psychoanalysis of his own mind, but he didn’t let it spoil his inner peace. He had never believed in labels, he was what he was, and all he wanted was to share his life with someone he loved.

Thoughts of spending the rest of his life with the man lying beside him aroused Tom’s inner desires and leaning over, he pressed his mouth against Booker’s lower lip and lovingly sucked the enticing flesh. A rush of air tickled his skin, and suppressing a smile, he murmured a soft directive. “Wakey, wakey, Officer Booker.”

The use of his official title pulled Booker from his restful slumber and opening his eyes, he attempted to focus his bleary gaze on Tom’s smiling face.

“Morning,” Tom greeted softly, his fingers lightly brushing an errant strand of hair from his lover’s face.

A soft pout formed on the dark-haired officer’s lower lip. “I was dreaming about you and you woke me up.”

With a grin, Tom ducked his head and peppered Booker’s broad chest with tender, butterfly kisses. “Can I make it up to you?” he teased, his lips moving lower with each tender caress.

“Mmm, Tommy kisses,” Booker breathed, his fingers entwining in Tom’s tousled hair. “My favorite kind.”

Growing bolder, Tom continued his journey, his moist lips tracing a seductive path over the rigid contours of Booker’s six-pack abs. The dark-haired officer’s spicy scent infused the air, and he breathed in the intoxicating bouquet, drawing courage from the familiarity of the masculine aroma. He could feel Booker’s erection pressing against him, teasing him, seducing him with the power of its virility. He longed to explore the hardening flesh with his mouth, to taste his lover’s sweet juices as they flowed against his tongue, but his nervousness soon got the better of him. He was a novice when it came to pleasuring men, and he feared making a complete fool of himself if he started something he couldn’t go through with. While he _wanted_ to experience the titillating sensation of Booker’s cock gliding through his lips, he was unsure of his limitations. What if he choked or gagged? Or worse, what if he threw up? The terrifying thoughts soon overpowered his senses, and he paused mid-kiss, his muscles locked with panic, his mind too frozen to proceed. His lips trembled against Booker’s taut flesh and closing his eyes he attempted to dispel the distressing images destroying his confidence. But a little voice inside his head played on his insecurities, persistently telling him he was an idiot to think he could ever pleasure a sexually experienced man like Dennis Booker, and if he tried, he would most certainly disappoint.

“Tommy?” Booker queried in a soft voice. He had hoped his lover would pleasure him with a handjob, but it appeared Tom was having second thoughts.

Unable to ignore the quietly spoken appeal, Tom lifted his head, and opening his eyes, his gaze fixed on Booker’s handsome face. He knew he needed to explain himself and a flash of embarrassment brightened his eyes. “I was thinking… I mean… I _wanted_ to try… but I don’t know if I’ll be able to...” 

Overcome with the humility of his ineptitude, Tom’s cheeks glowed pink, and he quickly lowered his gaze. “Shit,” he muttered, his fingers working furiously over his upper lip. “I completely screwed this up.”

Elated and amused in equal measures, Booker found Tom’s nervous bashfulness so adorable, he almost burst out laughing. But he caught himself just in time. His lover was attempting to initiate sex (albeit in an awkward, boyish kind of way), which was a huge step after what had occurred the previous night. He longed to take him in his arms and kiss his perfect bow-shaped lips but watching him squirm was too delightful. The blushing pink hue highlighting Tom’s cheekbones coupled with his shy smile made him weak at the knees, and he could feel his cock lengthening. But the sympathetic ache in his heart soon won over, and with a regretful sigh, he decided to put his lover out of his misery. “Do you want me to suck you, baby? Is that what you want?”

Tom’s blush deepened, and throwing caution to the wind, he gave a coy shake of his head. “That’s not what I meant. I thought… well, I dunno… I thought maybe this time I could… you know… suck _you.”_

The revelation was not what Booker expected, and his eyes grew wide with surprise. “Tommy, I… are you… oh God… are you sure?”

Although not exactly the response he had hoped for, Tom’s head nodded frantically, and when he found his voice, his words tripped over his lips in their anxiety to be free. “Y-Yes, I mean, I-I want to try, but I m-might not be any good so—”

“Oh, baby,” Booker reassured and reaching out a hand, he tenderly cupped Tom’s face in his palm. “I don’t want you to feel pressured. If you don’t feel ready—”

“But I am,” Tom interjected in a rush of words. “I-I just don’t know if you’re gonna like it.”

Once again, Booker’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? Just looking at you makes me horny. Having your mouth wrapped around my cock is gonna blow my mind.”

A nervous laugh escaped from between Tom’s lips. “That’s kinda what I’m afraid of.”

Sympathy softened Booker’s expression. He remembered too well the first time a man had ejaculated in his mouth. He was sixteen years old and still coming to terms with his sexuality. When the first spurt of warm, salty fluid had coated his tongue, his gag reflex had kicked in, and he’d instinctively jerked away. But before he could spit it out, the second, third, and fourth eruption had covered his lips in thick, creamy semen. If that wasn’t mortifying enough, the high school jock’s reaction had almost been his undoing. The senior had laughed hysterically before zipping up his pants and walking away, leaving Booker to suffer alone with the indignity of his humiliation. After his horrifying introduction to oral sex, he had abstained until his first serious relationship, and through the gentle coaching of an older, more experienced man, he had come to appreciate the eroticism of the act. He now relished the sensation of warm semen filling his mouth, but he understood the hesitancy in Tom’s willingness to please. For most men, fellatio was an incredibly intimate experience, and he hoped Tom’s first time wouldn’t mirror his own disastrous encounter. He wanted his lover to enjoy the event as much as he knew _he_ would, and therefore, he vowed to take on the role of mentor, just as _his_ lover had done all those years ago.

With his mind made up, he lovingly stroked Tom’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “The first time’s always the hardest, but if you really want to do this, I promise I’ll warn you before I come, and that’ll give you a chance to pull away. But pull _right_ away ‘cause… well… just trust me, okay?”

It took a moment for the meaning of Booker’s words to sink in, but when the cryptic message became clear, Tom’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “Oh… um… oh God.”

Booker suppressed a disappointed sigh. It was evident by the horrified look on his lover’s face that Tom wasn’t ready to engage in such an intimate sexual act and although somewhat frustrated, he was determined not to make a big deal out of his change of heart. “It’s okay, baby,” he reassured with a smile. “Maybe another time.”

Relief relaxed Tom’s facial muscles, and he returned a half smile. But when he caught sight of the wistful look in Booker’s eyes, he felt like a prick tease. He’d given his lover false hope by implying their relationship was moving toward a more mutually beneficial arrangement, but at the last moment, he’d chickened out, leaving the dark-haired officer wanting. After everything he and Booker had been through, he wanted their lives together to move forward and the only way he could perceive that happening was to prove his love. Deep down, he knew he was ready for the next step, but he’d allowed his anxiety to convince him otherwise. He was man enough to admit he _was_ nervous, but he was tired of living in fear. Despite their propensity for passionate outbursts, he knew in his heart their love was the real deal, and he wanted to express it physically as well as emotionally. Love wasn’t always easy, it required dedication, sacrifice, and above all, commitment. And he _was_ committed, one-hundred percent committed, and the time had come to show Booker his devotion.

When Tom remained silent, Booker pushed all thoughts of sex from his mind and relaxing back against his pillow, he closed his eyes. “Don’t feel bad,” he consoled with a sigh. “We’ve got our whole lives to— _Whoa!”_

The dark-haired officer sat up with a start, his expression registering surprise. Stunned, he stared open-mouthed at the unexpected vision of Tom lightly mouthing over his boxer-clad erection. “Tommy, you don’t have—”

“Shhh,” Tom murmured against the hardening flesh beneath his lips. “I want to. So lie back and enjoy the ride.” 

There was a noticeable quiver in the young officer’s voice, an undeniable trace of anxiety, but Booker ignored it. He wanted it… no, he _needed_ it, and falling back against his pillow, he concentrated on the delightful sensation of Tom’s lips massaging his growing erection. When a warm hand liberated him from the confines of his boxers, he inhaled a sharp hiss through his teeth. Without realizing it, he held his breath, his trembling body waiting in eager anticipation for what he knew would be an explosive moment in time. In his dreams, he had visualized the moment Tom’s lips first made contact with his cock, but the reality was far more erotic than even he had imagined. When moist lips lightly pressed against his cockhead, he thought he would blow his load there and then, and it took all his willpower not to ram his shaft deep inside Tom’s warm, inviting mouth. Another hiss escaped his lips, and tangling his fingers in Tom’s sleep-mussed hair, he gasped his encouragement in a low, husky pant. “That’s it, baby. Kiss it… kiss it again.”

A moment of panic constricted Tom’s chest, the rapid _thump, thump, thump,_ of his heart sounding in his ears, the sonorous beat confusing his senses. It was then the reality of the situation hit him like a fist to the face. Even though he and Booker had fooled around, including him giving his lover a handjob, nothing had prepared him for the moment when his lips touched another man’s cock. Perspiration prickled his skin, the cool morning breeze wafting through the window raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck, and he shivered involuntarily. The reality of the situation hit him hard, but there was no turning back. Their amorous play had progressed too far, the scent of sex now as discernible as the heavy beat of his heart, and he knew he needed to keep going or risk hurting his lover’s feelings.

With his mind made up, he pursed his lips and pressed them against Booker’s smooth, spongy cockhead. A low moan sounded from above, and swallowing down his fear, he swirled his tongue over the tip. A burst of pre-cum bubbled over his taste buds, the mild, saliferous flavor unlike anything he’d experienced before. He grimaced as the unfamiliar taste danced over his tongue, but he soon realized it wasn’t _too_ unpleasant and he found his confidence growing. Maybe giving head wouldn’t be as bad as he first thought.

Emboldened, Tom lightly grasped Booker’s testicles, and with a tentative hand, he gave a gentle tug. He was rewarded with another moan and he smiled against the creamy flesh beneath his lips. It had been a long time since he’d had complete control over another person’s sexual pleasure, and he started to believe he _could_ be the lover Booker deserved. Not that he claimed to have half the skill Booker possessed when it came to effecting an orgasm in a male partner, but in time he would learn.

An affectionate hand stroked over the top of his head. “Are you okay, baby?” a voice whispered from beyond the realm of Tom’s thoughts. “Do you wanna stop?”

The tender concern in his lover’s voice sent a rush of love through Tom’s heavily beating heart. Despite his obvious sexual arousal, Booker had given him an out, and knowing he cared enough to stop their amorous play dramatically increased the affection Tom felt for the dark-haired officer. As if by magic, all his remaining fear and doubt disappeared, and before he could change his mind, he took Booker into his mouth and ran his lips up the length of his shaft.

Caught by surprise, Booker’s hips shot forward, the titillating contact sending a bolt of pleasure through his quivering body. _“Ohhh,”_ he groaned, his fingers working their way through Tom’s luscious hair. “Oh, Tommy.”

Another burst of pre-cum coated Tom’s tongue, but this time he was prepared. He continued his oral exploration of Booker’s thick, rigid shaft; sucking, licking, devouring each pearly droplet leaking from the tip with a renewed vigor. As he began to relax, his cock began to respond to the tactile sensation stimulating his tongue. Reaching down, he ran the tips of his fingers over his swollen shaft, the erotic sensitivity of his touch forcing a loud moan from deep within his throat. The soft vibration pulsated over Booker’s cockhead, sending a full-body tremor down the dark-haired officer’s spine, and his toes curled in response. “Yes,” he moaned, his breath exhaling in short, measured pants. “Like that, baby. Just like that.”

Tom’s moist lips continued to glide over Booker’s shaft, his oral massage bringing Booker closer to orgasm with each erogenous caress. It felt strange knowing he had a man’s cock in his mouth, but it certainly wasn’t the worst experience of his life. However, it also wasn’t the most pleasant, and he began to appreciate why most of his former girlfriends had given less than enthusiastic performances. Booker was the exception, he appeared to relish the act, and that made Tom all the more determined to continue. He loved Dennis, and he at least wanted to try to pleasure him with the same level of passion.

“Baby, I’m close,” Booker warned in a breathless voice, his hands attempting to push Tom away.

The salty flavor coating Tom’s tongue intensified, but he ignored his lover’s warning and remembering Booker’s trademark maneuver, he pressed his lips tightly against the hard shaft filling his mouth and began to hum.

The unexpected vibration pulsating against Booker’s sensitive cockhead had the desired effect. Unable to control his impending orgasm, the dark-haired officer’s hips shot forward, his garbled cry filling the small room. “Tom _meeenoooahhhjeeesUUUS!”_

Warm semen flooded the back of Tom’s throat, and screwing his eyes closed, he struggled not to gag. Embarrassed, he forced himself to swallow, and as the thick, salty fluid slid down his throat, a shiver of revulsion ran down the length of his spine. But as his saliva absorbed the saliferous flavor, there was a strange familiarity he couldn’t explain, a _Bookerish_ familiarity fueling his arousal, and with two quick strokes of his penis, he ejaculated.

When a gentle hand stroked his hair, Tom released Booker’s softening cock from between his lips, and with one final gulp, he swallowed the remaining semen coating his tongue.

One desperately spoken word conveyed the depth of Booker’s concern. “Baby?”

Tom remained silent, his head bowed over Booker’s dwindling erection, his chest heaving with sharp, jagged breaths. With his eyes closed, his mind focused on the post-climactic calm rolling over his sated flesh. The salty tang skipping over his taste buds had diminished, leaving behind a spicy aftertaste and he swallowed deeply, scrutinizing the flavor. The taste of semen wasn’t exactly to his liking, but he figured it was an acquired taste, and he’d get used to it over time. Maybe he’d even learn to appreciate it in the same way Booker did. Either way, he was eager to try again. Practice made perfect, and once he honed his skills, he’d be able to bestow upon his lover the sexual pleasure he so richly deserved.

Eventually, Booker’s soft voice reached his ears. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” the dark-haired officer murmured, his hand gently tugging at the sweaty strands of hair at the nape of Tom’s neck. “I tried to warn you.”

Lifting his head, Tom crawled up the bed and flopping down next to Booker, his lips tilted into a smile. “I heard you.”

An expression of surprise passed over Booker’s face. “Why didn’t you pull away?”

With a sigh, Tom snuggled in close to his lover’s warm body. “I wanted to taste you,” he replied quietly.

“And?”

Not wanting to offend, Tom traced a light finger over Booker’s chest in the hope of distracting him. “I dunno. It was… _different.”_

Pushing up onto one elbow, Booker stared down at his lover, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “Different as in bad?” he asked in a strained voice.

Tom rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his post-climactic calm now nothing more than a distant memory. “No, not bad… just different.”

Booker flopped back down on the mattress and mirroring Tom’s position, he exhaled a disappointed sigh. “You hated it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tom murmured, and hoping to appease his lover, he wrapped an arm around his waist and pecked his cheek. “It was just… kinda weird. And I know I wasn’t very good, but just so you know, I’m happy to try again.”

Turning his head, Booker stared into Tom’s chocolate brown eyes. “Really?” he asked, unable to disguise the hopeful edge in his voice. Being his first time, he knew the young officer had struggled, but he didn’t want him to abandon the idea altogether. Variety was the spice of life, and oral sex was an integral part of any relationship. Therefore, he hoped one day, Tom would learn to enjoy it just as much as he did.

“Really,” Tom smiled, and snuggling into the crook of Booker’s neck, he closed his eyes. 

Pleased, Booker kissed Tom’s sweet, bowed lips before whispering a loving message in his ear. “And just for the record, it wasn’t bad, it was fucking fantastic.”

A contented grin graced Tom’s lips. He’d survived his first blowjob without making a fool of himself, thereby adding a new dimension to their relationship, and he couldn’t be happier.


	52. Taking Back Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom remained silent, his head bowed over Booker’s dwindling erection, his chest heaving with sharp, jagged breaths. With his eyes closed, his mind focused on the post-climactic calm rolling over his sated flesh. The salty tang skipping over his taste buds had diminished, leaving behind a spicy aftertaste and he swallowed deeply, scrutinizing the flavor. The taste of semen wasn’t exactly to his liking, but he figured it was an acquired taste, and he’d get used to it over time. Maybe he’d even learn to appreciate it in the same way Booker did. Either way, he was eager to try again. Practice made perfect, and once he honed his skills, he’d be able to bestow upon his lover the sexual pleasure he so richly deserved._
> 
> _Eventually, Booker’s soft voice reached his ears. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” the dark-haired officer murmured, his hand gently tugging at the sweaty strands of hair at the nape of Tom’s neck. “I tried to warn you.”_
> 
> _Lifting his head, Tom crawled up the bed and flopping down next to Booker, his lips tilted into a smile. “I heard you.”_
> 
> _An expression of surprise passed over Booker’s face. “Why didn’t you pull away?”_
> 
> _With a sigh, Tom snuggled in close to his lover’s warm body. “I wanted to taste you,” he replied quietly._
> 
> _“And?”_
> 
> _Not wanting to offend, Tom traced a light finger over Booker’s chest in the hope of distracting him. “I dunno. It was… different.”_
> 
> _Pushing up onto one elbow, Booker stared down at his lover, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “Different as in bad?” he asked in a strained voice._
> 
> _Tom rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his post-climactic calm now nothing more than a distant memory. “No, not bad… just different.”_
> 
> _Booker flopped back down on the mattress and mirroring Tom’s position, he exhaled a disappointed sigh. “You hated it.”_
> 
> _“That’s not what I meant,” Tom murmured, and hoping to appease his lover, he wrapped an arm around his waist and pecked his cheek. “It was just… kinda weird. And I know I wasn’t very good, but just so you know, I’m happy to try again.”_
> 
> _Turning his head, Booker stared into Tom’s chocolate brown eyes. “Really?” he asked, unable to disguise the hopeful edge in his voice. Being his first time, he knew the young officer had struggled, but he didn’t want him to abandon the idea altogether. Variety was the spice of life, and oral sex was an integral part of any relationship. Therefore, he hoped one day, Tom would learn to enjoy it just as much as he did._
> 
> _“Really,” Tom smiled, and snuggling into the crook of Booker’s neck, he closed his eyes._
> 
> _Pleased, Booker kissed Tom’s sweet, bowed lips before whispering a loving message in his ear. “And just for the record, it wasn’t bad, it was fucking fantastic.”_
> 
> _A contented grin graced Tom’s lips. He’d survived his first blowjob without making a fool of himself, thereby adding a new dimension to their relationship, and he couldn’t be happier._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35131496104/in/dateposted-public/)

**Nine days later**

Gray, nimbostratus clouds blanketed the L.A. skyline, the promise of rain becoming more of a threat with each passing hour. The impending storm mirrored the tumultuous thoughts brewing within Tom's mind, adding another layer of substance to his already pensive mood. After countless cups of coffee and only three hours’ sleep, he was on edge, caught in a web of his own making. He wandered in aimless circles around the living room floor, his pinched face showing clear signs of agitation, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. For the tenth time in less than five minutes, he glanced at the clock, unsure if he _wanted_ his visitor to arrive or not. But despite his apprehension, he knew he needed to face his demons, and a gloomy November day seemed as good an occasion as any. To put off the inevitable was the coward’s way out, and he was done feeling ashamed. He’d come too far over the last few weeks to turn his back on his objective. Booker had moved in permanently five days before, changing the dynamic of his whole existence, and after many late night discussions, he had come to an important decision about his recovery. Despite his trepidation, he knew it was his moment to shine, to prove once and for all he had the courage to fight, no matter how rough the road to freedom might be. Although many might not believe it, Tom Hanson was back, and he was ready to take down the bad guys.

A loud knock stopped him mid-stride, and closing his eyes, he employed his breathing technique, preparing himself for what was to come. When a second tap sounded, he opened his eyes and straightening his shoulders, he walked across the room and opened the door. 

The months since Tom’s assault hadn’t been kind to Adam Fuller. The once proud, capable man was a shadow of his former self, and it showed. His dark beard showed flecks of gray, the fine streaks of silver threading through the facial hair aging him prematurely. There was no sign of a smile, just a stony mask etched with deep worry lines staring back at Tom through red-rimmed eyes. He'd lost his spark, and for Tom, it was a confronting sight. For the first time since his rape, the young officer realized how much his ordeal had affected those around him. Immediately, the weight of regret crushed his chest and his eyes clouded over. But he was determined not to buckle under the strain of remorse and mustering all his inner courage, he managed a small smile. “Hey, Coach, thanks for coming.” 

The hard lines trenching Fuller’s brow softened, erasing years from his face. “It’s good to see you, Hanson,” he murmured, his gaze taking in Tom’s appearance. “You look… better.”

Embarrassed, Tom ducked his head, the memories of their last meeting filling his mind. At the time, he’d been teetering on the edge of a breakdown, his refusal to reveal what had occurred at the Pi Tau hazing fracturing their relationship. From then on, he’d avoided contact, preferring to relinquish his gun to Penhall rather than to the man who had an uncanny ability to read his thoughts. But all that was in the past. The moment had come to face the captain who had helped mold him into the outstanding police officer he had once been. Fuller’s guidance had been invaluable, and although awkward, Tom knew he owed his friend the apology he deserved.

After closing the door, the young officer motioned Fuller to the couch. Once seated, he cleared his throat in readiness before speaking in a voice trembling with regret. “Cap’n, I just want you to know I never meant—”

“Take a seat, Hanson.”

The command caught Tom off guard, and he instinctively obeyed his superior without questioning his demand. Moving over to the nearest chair, he sat down, his posture stiff and formal. Unsure how to behave, his hands twisted in his lap, his nervous disposition sending ripples of tension throughout the room. He had hoped to give his captain his news without having to face an inquisition, but it appeared he had miscalculated the older man’s intentions. It was self-evident by the look on Fuller’s face he wanted more than just an apology, he wanted answers. 

After several long seconds of silent scrutiny, Tom opened his mouth to speak. But once again, Fuller cut him off, this time, his voice lowering to a soft, fatherly tone. “Before we talk, Tom, I need to know how you’re doing.”

Despite his resolve, tears pricked at the young officer’s eyes. He swallowed deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing with suppressed emotion. The tender concern in his captain’s voice was unexpected, the careworn eyes filled with compassion unfamiliar, and yet in his heart, Tom knew it wasn’t contrived. Fuller’s empathy and concern for his young charges went beyond his job description. Without exception, he showed a genuine interest in every officer under his command, his paternal attention perhaps compensating for the absence of a relationship with his son. He was, in essence, the father-figure Tom had lacked from the age of sixteen, and once again, the weight of regret crushed at the young officer’s chest. He’d let his superior down, and although he couldn’t turn back the clock, he could, at the very least, try to make things right.

Drawing in a slow breath of air, he exhaled through pursed lips, his demeanor visibly relaxing. “I’m doing okay, Coach,” he confessed in a soft voice. “It hasn’t been easy, but things are getting better, and now I’m with Booker I—” 

Realizing his mistake, he stopped mid-sentence, his face coloring red. He had no idea if Fuller knew about his and Booker’s relationship, and he wasn’t sure how his captain would take the news. Not only was he dating a man, but he was also dating a colleague, and intimate relationships between co-workers were not permitted. Fraternization could see them both facing disciplinary action, but for Booker, the consequences were far more severe. While they had both breached the Oath of Honor by withholding information about the Pi Tau initiation, Booker still had his career ahead of him, and he didn’t need another black mark on his record. Furious with himself for behaving so thoughtlessly, Tom wiped a nervous hand over his mouth, and with his mind in a whirl, he attempted to right his wrong. “Um, I didn’t mean me and Booker are a couple, I just meant—”

“Relax, Hanson,” Fuller assuaged, a strained smile pulling at his lips. “I know about you and Booker, and although I don’t condone two of my officer’s dating, I’m willing to make an exception. But don’t make me regret my decision, okay?”

Without realizing it, Fuller had given Tom the perfect opening and moistening his lips, the nervous officer revealed his news. “Yeah, well, about that… I’ve decided not to come back to Jump Street. I'm handing in my badge.”

Surprise animated Fuller’s features, his structured facade faltering before settling back into its well-worn mask of composure. All that remained was a hint of sadness projecting from his dark eyes, but when he finally spoke, he did so in a strong, steady voice. “If this is because of Booker, you’re making a grave mistake. You’re an outstanding officer, Hanson, and if you’re throwing away your career because you think your romance is more important, I’m here to tell you it isn’t. Relationships don’t always last, especially ones started under duress. Don’t hurry into one of the biggest decisions of your life just to appease Booker. Take some time to weigh up your options. Otherwise, you might live to regret it.”

If anyone else had given Tom the same pep talk, he would have reacted with anger and resentment. But he had the utmost respect for his captain, and therefore, instead of taking offense, he attempted to explain himself.

“Just hear me out, Coach,” he appealed, his dark eyes seeking approval. “This isn’t about Booker, it’s about me. I thought if I buried the memories of my assault, I could forget it ever happened and go on living my life. But it’s not working. It _did_ happen, and unless I do something about it, it’ll happen again. I can’t have that on my conscience... I can’t let someone else go through what I did. So, I’ve decided I’m going to press charges against the Pi Taus. But if I’m going to get through this, I need a fresh start, and the only way I can do that is by quitting the force.”

Although disappointed by Tom’s resolution, Fuller could not fault his logic or his strength of mind. If abandoning his career gave the young officer the peace he so desperately sought, then as a friend, he was determined to support him in whatever path he chose. But before he had a chance to voice his approval, Tom spoke again, his downcast eyes focusing on the tips of his superior’s shoes. “I also want you to know how sorry I am for everything. I let you down, and I hope you can forgive me.”

The lines around Fuller’s eyes softened. “You didn’t let me down. I’m proud of you, son. I’ve always been proud of you, and I know your father would be too.”

The lump in Tom’s throat swelled, and it took several swallows to force it back down. His captain’s validation and praise meant more to him than any award or decoration he may have received if he’d continued his career as a police officer. He was deeply touched by the heartfelt admission and meeting Fuller’s gaze, he expressed his gratitude. “Thanks, Cap’n. That means a lot.”

Never one to show too much emotion, Fuller brushed the appreciation aside by changing the subject. “So, you and Booker? I never would have guessed.”

Tom attempted to disguise his embarrassment behind a low chuckle. “Neither would I,” he admitted. “But it kinda works.”

Fuller acknowledged the statement with a smile. “Booker’s a good man. Just don’t let him boss you around too much, okay?”

Returning an absent nod, Tom attempted to quell the anxiety churning in his stomach. The social part of the visit was over, and although he wasn’t looking forward to it, he knew he had no choice but to get down to the business end of the meeting. “So, I guess I need to make a formal statement about what happened at the fraternity.”

Concern for Tom once again thawed Fuller’s usual prickly countenance. “If it makes you more comfortable, you can do at the Hollenbeck Station,” he suggested quietly. 

Even though he knew his captain had viewed the unedited video, the thought of actually giving him a blow-by-blow description filled Tom with a sickening dread. If he took the easy way out, he could speak to an unknown, faceless police officer, and although harrowing, he’d save himself from the humiliation of witnessing Fuller’s reaction. But by extricating himself from a painful and emotional situation, he was also affirming his cowardice, and he wanted to prove to Booker he was better than that. He’d made the decision to speak out about his rape, and by doing so, he hoped his lover would follow suit and lay assault charges against Holland. With the help of Jorge’s testimony, he was certain they had enough evidence to take the Pi Taus and Holland to trial. It was still early days, but if he wanted a result, he knew he would have to face many embarrassing interrogations, and the sooner he got used to it, the easier it would become. 

Or so he hoped.

With his mind at least partially liberated by his decision, Tom gave Fuller a slow shake of his head. “If you don’t mind, Coach, I’d rather speak to you.”

A twinkle of pride shone from Fuller’s eyes, but he remained stubbornly stoic. “Well then, Hanson, I guess we’d better get started.”

And so began the most difficult conversation of Tom’s life.


	53. Coming Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: “Just hear me out, Coach,” he appealed, his dark eyes seeking approval. “This isn’t about Booker, it’s about me. I thought if I buried the memories of my assault, I could forget it ever happened and go on living my life. But it’s not working. It did happen, and unless I do something about it, it’ll happen again. I can’t have that on my conscience... I can’t let someone else go through what I did. So, I’ve decided I’m going to press charges against the Pi Taus. But if I’m going to get through this, I need a fresh start, and the only way I can do that is by quitting the force.”_
> 
> _Although disappointed by Tom’s resolution, Fuller could not fault his logic or his strength of mind. If abandoning his career gave the young officer the peace he so desperately sought, then as a friend, he was determined to support him in whatever path he chose. But before he had a chance to voice his approval, Tom spoke again, his downcast eyes focusing on the tips of his superior’s shoes. “I also want you to know how sorry I am for everything. I let you down, and I hope you can forgive me.”_
> 
> _The lines around Fuller’s eyes softened. “You didn’t let me down. I’m proud of you, son. I’ve always been proud of you, and I know your father would be too.”_
> 
> _The lump in Tom’s throat swelled, and it took several swallows to force it back down. His captain’s validation and praise meant more to him than any award or decoration he may have received if he’d continued his career as a police officer. He was deeply touched by the heartfelt admission and meeting Fuller’s gaze, he expressed his gratitude. “Thanks, Cap’n. That means a lot.”_
> 
> _Never one to show too much emotion, Fuller brushed the appreciation aside by changing the subject. “So, you and Booker? I never would have guessed.”_
> 
> _Tom attempted to disguise his embarrassment behind a low chuckle. “Neither would I,” he admitted. “But it kinda works.”_
> 
> _Fuller acknowledged the statement with a smile. “Booker’s a good man. Just don’t let him boss you around too much, okay?”_
> 
> _Returning an absent nod, Tom attempted to quell the anxiety churning in his stomach. The social part of the visit was over, and although he wasn’t looking forward to it, he knew he had no choice but to get down to the business end of the meeting. “So, I guess I need to make a formal statement about what happened at the fraternity.”_
> 
> _Concern for Tom once again thawed Fuller’s usual prickly countenance. “If it makes you more comfortable, you can do at the Hollenbeck Station,” he suggested quietly._
> 
> _Even though he knew his captain had viewed the unedited video, the thought of actually giving him a blow-by-blow description filled Tom with a sickening dread. If he took the easy way out, he could speak to an unknown, faceless police officer, and although harrowing, he’d save himself from the humiliation of witnessing Fuller’s reaction. But by extricating himself from a painful and emotional situation, he was also affirming his cowardice, and he wanted to prove to Booker he was better than that. He’d made the decision to speak out about his rape, and by doing so, he hoped his lover would follow suit and lay assault charges against Holland. With the help of Jorge’s testimony, he was certain they had enough evidence to take the Pi Taus and Holland to trial. It was still early days, but if he wanted a result, he knew he would have to face many embarrassing interrogations, and the sooner he got used to it, the easier it would become._
> 
> _Or so he hoped._
> 
> _With his mind at least partially liberated by his decision, Tom gave Fuller a slow shake of his head. “If you don’t mind, Coach, I’d rather speak to you.”_
> 
> _A twinkle of pride shone from Fuller’s eyes, but he remained stubbornly stoic. “Well then, Hanson, I guess we’d better get started.”_
> 
> _And so began the most difficult conversation of Tom’s life._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35971491475/in/dateposted-public/)

From his vantage point behind his desk, Booker watched in surprise as Fuller entered the Chapel’s central hub, followed closely by Tom. While he knew Hanson had arranged to meet with their captain to discuss his resignation, he had expected the interview to take place in their home. Ever since his assault, Jump Street was a touchy subject for Tom, and he deflected all mention of it whenever he could. So, to see him walk through the door of the one place he avoided at all costs was a mystery. Something was going on.

With his curiosity now piqued, Booker attempted to catch his lover’s eye, but his not so subtle attempt went unnoticed. Tom’s gaze remained stubbornly fixed on the floor until the two men disappeared into Fuller’s office, the door slamming closed behind them.

“Whaddya think that’s about?”

The question startled Booker out of his trance and turning his head, he focused on Penhall’s worried face. Since getting caught naked in Tom’s apartment, he and Doug had managed to avoid each other. It was an unspoken arrangement designed to protect Tom, but it also forestalled the inevitable awkward conversation. For Penhall, the reasons behind his circumvention seemed obvious. The disturbing image of Booker’s family jewels swinging free in the breeze still haunted him, and he wished he could blank it from his memory forever. Therefore, staying away from the dark-haired officer seemed the easiest way to keep the vision at bay. At least, that was what he told himself. The truth was, he was still coming to terms with the idea his best friend was in a sexual relationship with Booker, and although nonjudgmental, he needed time to process the information. 

In Booker’s case, his reasons were more emotive. The unique relationship Tom shared with Doug played on his insecurities, the instinctive emotion slowly eroding his belief in himself. While he knew he was behaving in an irrational manner, he could not curb his envy, thereby opening the floodgates of doubt and allowing the green waves of jealousy to flow freely. By disassociating himself from the root of his aggravation, he could effectively ignore the love Tom felt for another man and hold on to his sanity. Although he recognized the love for what it was, an affection built on friendship and not sexual chemistry, he found it difficult to separate the two. Therefore, it was easier to give Penhall the cold-shoulder and try to forget their relationship even existed.

However, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t ignore the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound officer when he was standing right in front of him, and pushing his paperwork to one side, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “I dunno. He had a meeting with Fuller about handing in his badge, but I’ve no idea why they’ve come back here.”

It took a moment for Doug to digest Booker’s words, but when he did, his eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Tommy’s quitting the force?”

The use of the affectionate pet name grated on Booker’s nerves, but he managed to maintain his cool. It appeared Tom hadn’t discussed his resignation with Doug, and the knowledge brought a smile to the dark-haired officer’s face. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Tom and Penhall _weren’t_ as close as he first thought. The revelation sent a tingle of satisfaction down his spine, and hiding his smirk behind his hand, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What? He didn’t tell you? That’s weird, ‘cause _I’ve_ known for a while.”

It was a low blow, but Booker couldn’t help himself. He _wanted_ to hurt Penhall, and the easiest way was to prove Tom had confided in him his innermost thoughts. It was juvenile, but that was the nature of the beast. Jealousy made you do the wacky.

Harsh lines transformed Penhall’s face into a ghostly mask of torment. He couldn’t believe Tom had kept such a vital piece of information from him, and he found it difficult not to retaliate in the same immature way as Booker. “Yeah? Well, I guess Hanson’s judgment has become impaired since shacking up with you. Hardly surprising, assholedom can be contagious.”

The crudity of the comment shocked Booker into reevaluating his behavior. It was rare for Penhall to resort to petty insults, and he knew his words had hit the officer hard. By allowing his personal grievance to get the better of him, he had become blind to the one thing he and Doug had in common, Tom’s welfare. As much as it pained him to admit it, if his lover _did_ find the inner courage to lay charges against the Pi Taus, he was going to need all the support he could get, and to deny Tom his friendship with Penhall was not only selfish but also irresponsible. The young officer had already suffered one breakdown, and Booker was determined to make sure it never happened again, even if that meant swallowing his pride and playing nice with a man he disliked.

And so, despite the childish animosity still smoldering beneath his skin, the dark-haired officer decided to take the high road, and with an apologetic smile, he offered an olive branch. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean to gloat. I’m sure Tom would have told you once he’d spoken to Fuller.”

Suspicion clouded Penhall’s eyes. “What’s with the sudden change of attitude? Two seconds ago, you couldn’t give a fuck about my feelings. Why are you being so considerate now?”

Booker gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “I dunno, I guess I thought it would help Tom. He’s dealing with a lot, and the last thing he needs is us acting like a couple of first graders.”

Unsure how to take Dennis’ about face, Penhall remained wary. “Are you saying you wanna call a truce?”

The question hung in the air for several seconds before Booker answered. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Tom’s your best friend, and I think we need to try to get along.”

Penhall continued to stare at Booker, his distrust evident in the stiffness of his stance. But eventually, his muscles relaxed, and he exhaled a sigh of resignation. “Okay, I’ll do it for Hanson. But I’m watching you, Booker. If you do _anything_ to hurt him, I’ll—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Booker interjected, the derisive roll of his eyes adding substance to his bored tone. “You’ll kick my ass. I already got the memo.”

With the terms of their agreement now understood, Doug pulled up a chair and leaning forward, he spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. “So, how is Tommy?”

The genuine concern reflected in the officer’s voice softened Booker’s irritation. But despite their armistice, he remained wary. “He’s doing okay, I guess.”

“Meaning?” Penhall pushed, his intense gaze searching for any hint of a lie.

Not wanting to give away too much information, Booker gave an evasive shrug. “Meaning he’s doing okay considering everything he’s been through.”

“And?”

Conscious of the police interview tactic used to gain information, Booker blew out his cheeks in frustration. “Look, Doug, I don’t feel comfortable talking about Tom’s private life, okay? Maybe the two of you should go out for a drink or something, then you can ask him yourself.”

Penhall snorted. “And you’d be okay with that? C’mon, Booker, even you’re not that good of a liar.” 

Refusing to acknowledge the officer’s attempt to wind him up, Booker’s expression remained neutral. “Sure. I think it’ll be good for Tom.”

It was on the tip of Doug’s tongue to scream, _‘Bullshit!’_ but he managed to bite down on his words just in time. For once in his life, Booker was trying hard _not_ to be a complete pain in the ass, and the least he could do was acknowledge the effort. “Yeah, okay, maybe I will,” he muttered, and rising from his chair, he walked away.

**

By the time Tom emerged from Fuller’s office, Booker’s curiosity had reached fever pitch. Two hours behind closed doors was a long time to fill out the necessary resignation paperwork, and the only logical conclusion the dark-haired officer could come up with was that Tom had taken the ultimate step and pressed charges against the Pi Taus. While he hoped it was true, he also felt a little put out his lover hadn’t asked him to sit in on the interview. He wanted to support Tom any way he could, and he didn’t understand why the man he shared a bed with hadn’t wanted him by his side while making the most difficult statement of his young life. The not knowing made him nervous, and he could not help but wonder if his lover had said something about their forced coupling that put him in a bad light.

With his paranoia at an all-time high, he shoved back from his desk, the loud scrape of his chair turning several heads. Standing up, he hurried across the room, only just managing to accost Tom before he could enter the stairwell. “That took a long time. Is there something you wanna tell me?”

Tom pushed rudely past his lover, a dark scowl marring his attractive features. “Like what?” 

“Are you really gonna act dumb?” Booker hissed as he followed Tom down the stairs. “Okay, I’ll play along. How ‘bout, _‘Hey Booker, I resigned, but I also told Fuller I want to press charges against the Pi Taus. But I didn’t want you there during my deposition because I swore to tell the truth and the reality is, I hate you for what you did to me in that basement, even though I pretend I don’t.’_ Am I close, huh? Am I in the fucking ballpark?”

Walking outside, Tom headed toward his car. “How do you know I gave a statement?” he muttered, his tone belligerent.

Frustrated, Booker grabbed hold of Tom’s upper arm, pulling him to a stop. “So, are you telling me you _didn’t?”_

“I’M TELLING YOU, IT’S NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!”

Shocked, Booker pulled back with a start. “My God, Tom, what’s wrong with you? Why are you attacking me?” 

Tom’s shoulders sagged, his combative attitude visibly fading along with dusk’s waning light. “I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he whispered, his eyes shining with pain. “Jesus, Dennis, I don’t know if I can do this?”

Ashamed of his actions, Booker wrapped his arms around Tom and pulled him into a tight hug. “Oh, baby, no one said it would be easy. But you _can_ do this, and just remember, you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and Penhall, and—”

“Penhall?” Tom queried in surprise, his chin tilting up to meet Booker’s loving gaze. “You hate Penhall. How can he be a part of my life when you can’t stand being in the same room with him?”

Uncomfortable with the role he’d played in keeping Tom from his best friend, Booker had the grace to blush. “Yeah, well, let’s just say I’ve had a change of heart. Doug and I talked, and we’re cool. If you need him, he’s there for you, just like I am, okay?”

A devious smile tweaked the corners of Tom’s lips. “Are you _actually_ admitting you were wrong?”

Pleased Tom could still see the funny side of what was a serious situation, Booker grinned. “No, I’m just saying you were right.”

Although relieved the two most important people in his life had resolved their differences, it didn’t take long for the spark to fade from Tom’s eyes. “Do you really think I can do this?” he whispered, drawing comfort from the protective aura of his lover’s warm embrace. “Do you _really_ think a jury will believe me?”

They were the same words uttered by almost every rape survivor when confronted with the prospect of a lengthy trial. Sexual assault not only stripped away a person’s dignity, it slowly chipped at their confidence to the point where they doubted anybody would take their testimony seriously. It was one of the reasons many survivors refused to lay charges, leaving rapists to walk free. But for Booker, he would die before he let that happen. Ever since Tom had voiced a desire to take the Pi Taus down, he had made it his personal mission not to let the topic drop. He brought it up as often as he could, gently prompting and encouraging his lover to take the first step and file a report. And while it now appeared his persistence had paid off, he knew it was only the beginning of a very long, difficult road toward justice. Tom would face many highs and lows throughout the lengthy legal process, all of which would put a strain on their relationship. But after all they had endured, he was confident their partnership would survive. All they had to do was believe in what they had, and everything else would fall into place. The universe had brought them together, and he doubted it had any intention of tearing them apart. What they had was meant to be, and nothing, not even the Pi Taus could destroy the love they felt for each other. It was eternal.

Releasing Tom from his arms, he rested his hands on his lover’s shoulders. “Baby, you’re the strongest person I know. You can do anything you set your mind to. And you’re forgetting one vital piece of information. Jorge is pressing charges against Holland, and I’m prepared to tell my story about what he did to me. And we have Harold as a witness, and he can attest to the abuse the Pi Taus inflicted on you. You have a strong case, and I think the only way you’re going to heal is to keep pushing forward, whatever the outcome. You can do this, you just have to believe in yourself.”

Booker was not one for speeches, and Tom took a moment to absorb his words. Gradually, a shy smile curved his lips. “I believe in _you,”_ he confessed quietly.

Touched by the sentiment, Booker smiled back. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about.”

Platitudes did not normally sit well with Tom, but for once, he allowed himself to take comfort from the empty words. He was terrified of what lay ahead, and he knew if he didn’t try to keep a small glimmer of hope alive, he would buckle beneath the burden of his adversity.


	54. Face Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **My apologies for the delay in posting, I had hoped to get a chapter up before I went on holiday, but it didn't happen. But I'm back now, so hopefully, I will have another chapter for you in the next few weeks.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Ashamed of his actions, Booker wrapped his arms around Tom and pulled him into a tight hug. “Oh, baby, no one said it would be easy. But you can do this, and just remember, you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and Penhall, and—”_
> 
> _“Penhall?” Tom queried in surprise, his chin tilting up to meet Booker’s loving gaze. “You hate Penhall. How can he be a part of my life when you can’t stand being in the same room with him?”_
> 
> _Uncomfortable with the role he’d played in keeping Tom from his best friend, Booker had the grace to blush. “Yeah, well, let’s just say I’ve had a change of heart. Doug and I talked, and we’re cool. If you need him, he’s there for you, just like I am, okay?”_
> 
> _A devious smile tweaked the corners of Tom’s lips. “Are you actually admitting you were wrong?”_
> 
> _Pleased Tom could still see the funny side of what was a serious situation, Booker grinned. “No, I’m just saying you were right.”_
> 
> _Although relieved the two most important people in his life had resolved their differences, it didn’t take long for the spark to fade from Tom’s eyes. “Do you really think I can do this?” he whispered, drawing comfort from the protective aura of his lover’s warm embrace. “Do you really think a jury will believe me?”_
> 
> _They were the same words uttered by almost every rape survivor when confronted with the prospect of a lengthy trial. Sexual assault not only stripped away a person’s dignity, it slowly chipped at their confidence to the point where they doubted anybody would take their testimony seriously. It was one of the reasons many survivors refused to lay charges, leaving rapists to walk free. But for Booker, he would die before he let that happen. Ever since Tom had voiced a desire to take the Pi Taus down, he had made it his personal mission not to let the topic drop. He brought it up as often as he could, gently prompting and encouraging his lover to take the first step and file a report. And while it now appeared his persistence had paid off, he knew it was only the beginning of a very long, difficult road toward justice. Tom would face many highs and lows throughout the lengthy legal process, all of which would put a strain on their relationship. But after all they had endured, he was confident their partnership would survive. All they had to do was believe in what they had, and everything else would fall into place. The universe had brought them together, and he doubted it had any intention of tearing them apart. What they had was meant to be, and nothing, not even the Pi Taus could destroy the love they felt for each other. It was eternal._
> 
> _Releasing Tom from his arms, he rested his hands on his lover’s shoulders. “Baby, you’re the strongest person I know. You can do anything you set your mind to. And you’re forgetting one vital piece of information. There are witnesses. Me, Harold, even Jorge can attest to the abuse the Pi Taus inflicted on you and others. You have a strong case, and I think the only way you’re going to heal is to keep pushing forward, whatever the outcome. You can do this, you just have to believe in yourself.”_
> 
> _Booker was not one for speeches, and Tom took a moment to absorb his words. Gradually, a shy smile curved his lips. “I believe in you,” he confessed quietly._
> 
> _Touched by the sentiment, Booker smiled back. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about.”_
> 
> _Platitudes did not normally sit well with Tom, but for once, he allowed himself to take comfort from the empty words. He was terrified of what lay ahead, and he knew if he didn’t try to keep a small glimmer of hope alive, he would buckle beneath the burden of his adversity._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35582447900/in/dateposted-public/)

**Three weeks later**

The distinctive crunch of tires on gravel sent a deluge of memories flooding into Booker’s mind. Only two short months before, he had parked his Cadillac outside the same imposing Spanish Mission style house, his cocksure demeanor evident at the time by his arrogant swagger. Back then, it had never occurred to him he wouldn’t be able to intimidate a sixty-year-old man into handing over an incriminating tape. But as time had proven, his overconfidence had ultimately been his undoing. Unwittingly, he had sold his soul to a devil disguised as a man, leaving him forever tortured by the gruesome memories of his mental and physical suffering. The experience had changed him, and he was no longer the upbeat twenty-three-year-old he had once been. Holland had stripped him of his dignity, and he doubted his self-respect would ever completely recover. 

“Are you okay?”

The softly spoken words cut through the darkness blanketing Booker’s mind, the flicker of light bringing him back from the gloomy depths of his memories. Turning in his seat, he offered his lover a forced smile. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

Not one to fall for Booker’s hubristic bravado, Tom laid bare the truth. “Because this is where Holland abused you. You don’t have to pretend with me, Dennis. If you don’t want to go in there, I can—”

“Go in there by yourself?” Booker shot back, his tone derisive. “Great idea, Hanson. Maybe then Holland can get what he really wants from you.”

Tom bristled, the malicious words slashing a gaping hole in his heart. While he only had vague memories of the sexual assault Holland had perpetrated against him, the disjointed images still managed to plague his mind in the early hours of the morning when sleep became elusive. The bleary visions, along with the vivid recollection of his rape, lay buried just beneath the surface of his consciousness, ready to emerge at the slightest provocation. A sound, a smell, even a touch triggered unwanted emotions, each one so potent, they still had the power to bring him to his knees. But at that moment, it was Booker’s words that hurt the most, and shifting his gaze, he stared at the impressive white building looming in front of them. “That's not what I meant,” he muttered, his expression downcast. “I was _going_ to say I could wait for backup and _then_ go in, but I guess now I’m only a signature away from becoming a civilian, you think I’m too stupid to come up with a rational plan.”

Too weary to argue, Booker turned away, his vacant gaze staring out of the windshield. “Holland’s dangerous,” he mumbled by way of explanation. “You don't know him like I do.”

A glimmer of pain flashed in Tom’s eyes, and his head dropped, the slight nod affirming Booker’s statement. “That’s right, I don’t. You let him fuck you, so I guess you know him better than you’ll ever know me.”

Booker’s head snapped to the right, his disbelieving expression quickly manifesting into one of anger. _“What?_ How the fuck can you say that? In case you’ve forgotten, the only reason I slept with him was to help you!”

Shame reddened Tom’s cheeks, but he remained stubbornly combative, his need to retaliate overriding his sensibilities. “But there were times you enjoyed it, you told me as much, so don’t try and deny it. And what about Jorge? You and he—”

“Don’t bring Jorge into this,” Booker warned, not liking where the conversation was heading. “You know there’s nothing between us. And anyway, you should be grateful to him. Without his information, we’d be flying blind. Holland’s an ingenious sonofabitch, he’s not going to have evidence of his crimes just lying around.”

Tom’s lower lip pushed into a sulky pout. He wasn’t sure why he was deliberately provoking his lover, all he did know was he was teetering on a knife’s edge. As the case against the Pi Taus had begun to take shape, he’d grown distant, unwilling to talk openly about his fear and apprehension. Dark thoughts challenged his convictions, the gloomy shadows crawling through his mind, invading his sanity. By agreeing to press charges, he had ripped open the emotional wound that, although not healed, had, over the past few months, become less painful. His life was about to turn upside down, and without Booker’s friendship and support, he doubted he would be able to see it through to its conclusion. Dennis was his world, but his insecurities often made it difficult for him to trust his lover completely. However, he was astute enough to know he had crossed the line and drawing in a deep breath, he attempted to make things right. “Sorry, I guess I’m kinda uptight. I know we couldn’t have done this without Jorge’s help, and it might not seem like it, but I _am_ grateful to him. It’s just... I dunno, sometimes I get so caught up in my own misery, I forget he suffered more than either of us.”

The tenseness in Booker’s muscles subsided and relaxing back against the Cadillac’s bucket seat, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “We’ve _all_ suffered, that’s why it’s so important we work together as a team. I wanna see every one of those sonsofbitches convicted for what they did to you.”

Although he knew he was treading on dangerous ground, Tom sought clarification. “And Holland?” he asked quietly. “Do you want to see him charged too?”

Hurt and angered by the question, Booker slammed the heel of his palm down on the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ, Tom, what the _fuck_ do you think?”

“I think I just pissed you off again,” Tom muttered, his tone petulant. He was tired of arguing, tired of putting on a brave front. The ink on the search warrant wasn’t even dry, and already he and Dennis were at each other’s throats, and for the second time in less than a few minutes, he wondered if the stress of a court case would leave them both bitter, disillusioned, and alone.

So, when cold fingers lightly caressed his cheek, he raised his head in surprise. Booker’s dark eyes met his, and it was then he knew he would find the strength he needed to keep going because to lose the one person in his life who had stood by him was more than his heart could bear.

Reassured, he took Booker’s hand in his and gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. “What are we doing?” he lamented softly. “Why do we keep attacking each other?”

Booker offered his lover a lopsided smile. “Maybe ‘cause we're idiots?”

The dark-haired officer’s wry attempt at humor did little to lighten Tom’s mood and releasing his lover’s hand, he stared out of the windshield. “I think we made a mistake coming here,” he confessed quietly. “Maybe we should just leave it to the uniform boys to issue the warrant and search the premises.”

An incredulous look raised Booker’s eyebrows. “Are you kidding me? No fucking way! After everything that asshole’s done, nothing’s gonna stop me from being there to see the look on his face when he realizes the game’s up. We’ve _earned_ that right, Tommy. Holland and the rest of the Pi Taus almost destroyed us, and I wanna see him squirm.”

There was no faulting the dark-haired officer’s logic, so Tom kept his thoughts to himself. But the truth was, he wasn’t confident the mogul _would_ fold under the pressure. A man of Holland’s means could afford the best attorney money could buy, thereby giving him a degree of superiority. Then there was the problem of evidence. Both Jorge and Dennis had agreed to cohabitate with Holland, and unless they found proof of abuse, it was doubtful they even had enough to lay charges. But Tom was not about to burst Booker’s bubble of optimism. His focus was on McCarter and the other six men who had defiled his body, destroying his innocence, the orgiastic atmosphere of touch and sound forever seared into his consciousness. He wanted them to suffer, just as he had, and if that meant sitting through a lengthy trial complete with humiliating video evidence, then he would somehow find the strength to endure. As Booker had rightly pointed out, they had come too far to give up now. They would see it through, side by side, and whatever the outcome, they would walk away together with their heads held high, knowing they’d done their very best.

“Uniform’s here,” Booker commented, the telltale crunch of tires on gravel alerting him to their presence. “Let’s go.”

The two officers alighted from the Cadillac, the slam of car doors shattering the tranquility, scaring the perching birds into panicked flight. Booker took the lead, his stride confident and purposeful. But beneath his resolute exterior, he was neither cool, calm, nor collected. Dark thoughts gnawed at his mind, his rising anxiety forcing the air from his lungs. He was about to confront his torturer, and he had no idea how he would react.

But before he could ascend the curved granite steps, the wooden door swung open. Holland stood in the entrance, composed, arrogant, the barest hint of a grin creasing the flesh around his eyes. “Dennis, sweetheart,” he crooned before his gaze focused on Tom. “And look who it is, young Officer Hanson. How are you, my darling boy? Keeping well I hope. So, what can I offer you fine gentlemen on this glorious day? A drink? Something to eat? Or are you after something a little more exciting? A threesome, perhaps? Oh, wouldn't that be fun! Or maybe I can tie you up and torture you until our almighty Lord releases you from this mortal coil. Now there’s a thought. What do you say, fellas, do you want to play?”

Sepia-toned memories bombarded Booker’s consciousness, the force of the visions buckling his knees. He stumbled, just barely managing to catch his footing, his vision blurring as instruments of torture flashed through his mind, the imagery still managing to inflict the torment for which they were designed. Psychosomatic pain shot through his body as the memories of his brutal assaults took on new life. His airway closed, the hallucinatory buckle of Holland’s belt pressing against his larynx, choking him until he could no longer breathe. He was trapped within the bubble of his own nightmare, an imaginary noose slowly suffocating him, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

Alarmed, Tom ran to his partner’s side, his face ashen with fear. “Dennis, what’s wrong?” he asked in a worried voice, his arm wrapping around his lover’s hunched shoulders. “Dennis, talk to me! What’s happening? What’s _happening?”_

Soft laughter filtered through Booker’s addled brain, Holland’s taunting chuckle breaking the chimerical spell binding him to his hallucination. Immediately, the pressure around his throat lessened, allowing him to draw in a ragged breath, and he sputtered loudly as a rush of much-needed oxygen filled his lungs. The panic attack had caught him off guard, but he wasn’t about to let it stop him. Pulling free from Tom’s embrace, he staggered up the steps, his lip pulled back in a furious snarl. “Yuk it up, asshole,” he sneered at Holland, adrenaline surging through his body, and reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper and waved it in front of the mogul’s face. “We have a warrant, so get out of my fucking way before I knock you down.”

Catching sight of his maid hovering behind him, Holland’s eyes narrowed, and ignoring Booker’s threat, he turned and addressed her. “The kitchen floor isn’t going to mop itself, Lupita.”

Flustered, the young woman turned to leave, but when a hand reached past Holland and grasped her arm, she spun around, her eyes wide with fear. It was a level of panic Booker hadn’t seen since Tom’s rape, and the officer knew if he were to get the information he needed, he first had to gain the frightened maid’s trust. Forcing his lips into a smile, he released her arm from his hold and relaxed his expression. “Do you remember me, Lupita?” he asked, enunciating his words carefully, despite the uneven pant of his breath. He knew the maid’s grasp of English was limited, and he wanted to make sure she understood everything he was saying.

“Sí, señor,” Lupita replied warily. “You are Dennis, amigo de Señor Holland.”

Tom’s face visibly blanched at the term _friend,_ but he was astute enough not to interrupt. While he didn’t always have faith in his lover’s methods, he knew if anyone could win the maid’s confidence, it was Booker.

“That’s right,” Booker smiled. “But I’m not Mister Holland’s amigo, I’m a police officer, _un policía,_ and I was hoping to ask you some questions.”

Lupita’s hands twisted at the material of her apron, her long fingers creasing the fabric into spiraled patterns of agitation. Fear drained the color from her cheeks as her large ebony eyes flitted frantically from Holland to Booker and back again. She had so much to lose; her job, her home, the ability to take care of her family. But long ago, when she was a small child, her mamà had taught her to always stand up for what she believed in, and now was the time she heeded her advice. Holland was pure evil, and if losing everything she had worked so hard to achieve meant he would end up behind bars, in her eyes, the sacrifice was worth it. Her honor was more valuable than money, and she would not taint her soul for a demon dressed as a man, no matter how well he paid.

“This to help Jorge?” she asked, her voice quavering slightly.

Sensing Lupita’s affection for the young Latino, Booker seized his chance. “Yes, for Jorge,” he agreed. With only a basic knowledge of Spanish, he paused for a moment, carefully choosing his next words so the young woman would fully understand what he was asking. “Do you know of any _compartimentos secretos en la casa de Holland?_ If you do, you need to tell me. _Comprendes?”_

Having heard enough, Holland stepped forward, his manner openly threatening. “I’m warning you, Lupita, if you speak to these officers I will have you deported. Deport _ado._ No more job means no more _dinero._ Do I make myself clear?”

Unbeknownst to Holland, it was this brazen display of intimidation that made up Lupita’s mind and unknotting her fingers from her crinkled apron, she pulled back her shoulders, her expression bravely defiant. “I see _every_ Señor Holland’s secrets,” she revealed to Booker with a knowing smile, and taking the officer by the hand, she gave an urgent tug. “I show you.”

Booker raised a questioning eyebrow at Holland. “Wanna join us, _asshole,_ or shall we leave you down here cuffed to a chair?”

Rage colored the mogul’s cheeks, his flaring nostrils, and rancorous glare transforming his handsome features into a mask of pure hatred. “You won’t get away with this,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “I _know_ people, _important_ people, and when they hear how you violated my civil rights, you’ll find yourself—”

A fist shot out of nowhere, the bare knuckles connecting with Holland’s jaw with an audible crack. The mogul’s head whipped to the right, a loud oomph sounding from between his lips. He stumbled backward, and using the wall for support, he collapsed onto an antique chair, his startled expression almost comical.

“You sick sonofabitch,” Tom spat, the force of his anger masking the throbbing in his damaged hand. “Nobody cared about _my_ civil rights when I was hanging from a hook with McCarter’s cock up my ass! They fucking _raped_ me, but that wasn’t enough for you, was it? No, you needed a piece of the action yourself so you drugged and abducted me so you could do God knows what, and you _still_ think you’re being treated unfairly? Well, fuck you, Holland! Fuck you! I’m tired of all this bullshit, so how ‘bout we end it here? Huh? Whaddya say? Is today a good day to die?” And without waiting for an answer, the young officer pulled out his gun and pointed it at Holland’s head.

With a squeal, Lupita released Booker’s hand and ran down the hallway to the safety of the kitchen. Unfazed, Tom kept the frightened tycoon in his sights. “Are you scared?” he taunted, a maniacal gleam brightening his eyes. “Are you about to piss yourself? ‘Cause now you know how I felt. The fear, the helplessness, it’s emasculating, isn’t it? And I bet you’d do just about _anything_ right now to get me to put my gun away. Isn’t that right, asshole? So, what shall I make you do? How can I humiliate you, so you understand the pain I went through?”

“Tommy, put down the gun.”

Surprised by the sound of Booker’s voice, Tom’s deranged gaze cleared, and without lowering his weapon, he turned his head toward his lover. “Why?” he asked, his voice rising with emotion. “He deserves to die. He’s a predator, Dennis, and if they let him go free, he’ll hurt someone else. I can’t live with that, can you?”

With his arm outstretched, Booker moved slowly forward. “I promise you, baby, he won’t go free, none of them will. We have a good case, we just have to trust the jury to do the right thing.”

Tom’s face twisted in agony. “I just want it to end!” he cried, tortured tears streaming down his face. “I just want it all to fucking END!”

Motioning for the uniformed officers to stay back, Booker inched closer toward his lover. “I know, baby, I know,” he consoled softly. “But if you do this, you’ll go to prison, and then we’ll never be together. Is killing Holland worth all that?”

Pain shimmered in Tom’s tearful eyes, and lowering his gun, his shoulders slumped forward. “N-No,” he sobbed. “Oh God, Dennis, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore!”

Moving slowly, Booker took the gun from Tom’s hand and tucked it in his waistband. Oblivious to the curious officers watching on with interest, he wrapped his arms around his lover’s quivering body and pulled him close. “It’s okay, baby, we’ll get through this.”

Tom leaned into the protective warmth of Booker’s chest. “P-Promise?” 

It was the second time Tom had sought confirmation by asking the childlike question, and although not as confident with his answer as he had been the first time, Booker gave the response his lover wanted to hear. “I promise.”


	55. Smoking Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: A fist shot out of nowhere, the bare knuckles connecting with Holland’s jaw with an audible crack. The mogul’s head whipped to the right, a loud oomph sounding from between his lips. He stumbled backward, and using the wall for support, he collapsed onto an antique chair, his startled expression almost comical._
> 
> _“You sick sonofabitch,” Tom spat, the force of his anger masking the throbbing in his damaged hand. “Nobody cared about my civil rights when I was hanging from a hook with McCarter’s cock up my ass! They fucking raped me, but that wasn’t enough for you, was it? No, you needed a piece of the action yourself so you drugged and abducted me so you could do God knows what, and you still think you’re being treated unfairly? Well, fuck you, Holland! Fuck you! I’m tired of all this bullshit, so how ‘bout we end it here? Huh? Whaddya say? Is today a good day to die?” And without waiting for an answer, the young officer pulled out his gun and pointed it at Holland’s head._
> 
> _With a squeal, Lupita released Booker’s hand and ran down the hallway to the safety of the kitchen. Unfazed, Tom kept the frightened tycoon in his sights. “Are you scared?” he taunted, a maniacal gleam brightening his eyes. “Are you about to piss yourself? ‘Cause now you know how I felt. The fear, the helplessness, it’s emasculating, isn’t it? And I bet you’d do just about anything right now to get me to put my gun away. Isn’t that right, asshole? So, what shall I make you do? How can I humiliate you, so you understand the pain I went through?”_
> 
> _“Tommy, put down the gun.”_
> 
> _Surprised by the sound of Booker’s voice, Tom’s deranged gaze cleared, and without lowering his weapon, he turned his head toward his lover. “Why?” he asked, his voice rising with emotion. “He deserves to die. He’s a predator, Dennis, and if they let him go free, he’ll hurt someone else. I can’t live with that, can you?”_
> 
> _With his arm outstretched, Booker moved slowly forward. “I promise you, baby, he won’t go free, none of them will. We have a good case, we just have to trust the jury to do the right thing.”_
> 
> _Tom’s face twisted in agony. “I just want it to end!” he cried, tortured tears streaming down his face. “I just want it all to fucking END!”_
> 
> _Motioning for the uniformed officers to stay back, Booker inched closer toward his lover. “I know, baby, I know,” he consoled softly. “But if you do this, you’ll go to prison, and then we’ll never be together. Is killing Holland worth all that?”_
> 
> _Pain shimmered in Tom’s tearful eyes, and lowering his gun, his shoulders slumped forward. “N-No,” he sobbed. “Oh God, Dennis, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore!”_
> 
> _Moving slowly, Booker took the gun from Tom’s hand and tucked it in his waistband. Oblivious to the curious officers watching on with interest, he wrapped his arms around his lover’s quivering body and pulled him close. “It’s okay, baby, we’ll get through this.”_
> 
> _Tom leaned into the protective warmth of Booker’s chest. “P-Promise?”_
> 
> _It was the second time Tom had sought confirmation by asking the childlike question, and although not as confident with his answer as he had been the first time, Booker gave the response his lover wanted to hear. “I promise.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35582480570/in/dateposted-public/)

The sun hovered majestically over the edge of the horizon, its rays shimmering a last hurrah before slowly dipping below the distant California skyline and vanishing from sight. Tom sat alone in Booker’s Cadillac, his eyes unseeing, his body immobile, his mind locked within the trauma of his recent breakdown. He had fully intended to shoot Holland, to put a bullet straight between his eyes and end the vile man’s reign of terror forever. It had seemed the perfect solution at the time, but on reflection, sitting in solitude as the shadows of the approaching night shielded him from what was occurring within the walls of Holland’s home, he realized he had teetered close to the brink of insanity. For a split second, he had lost all rationality, and the aftermath could have been catastrophic. If it wasn’t for Booker’s intervention, he could have spent a lifetime behind bars, deprived of his liberties, leaving him at the mercy of every predator within the prisons cold, stone walls. It had been a close call, and for the millionth time, he wondered if he was emotionally ready to face his rapists in court. Maybe it would be better to slink away with his tail between his legs rather than put himself through what was sure to be a humiliating experience, with no guarantee of a successful outcome. Or maybe he could take his Smith and Wesson and put himself out of his misery once and for all, sparing everyone he loved the inconvenience of taking care of a psychologically damaged man.

Footsteps on gravel alerted him to someone's presence and focusing his eyes, he watched Booker approach the car, an evidence bag held in each hand. The dark-haired officer walked to the back of the Cadillac, and opening the trunk, he placed the two bags inside before slamming the lid closed. Moments later, the driver’s door opened, and Booker climbed in behind the wheel, the seat shifting slightly under his weight. He left the door ajar, the cool evening breeze helping to dry the sweat from his weary body. The search, although fruitful, had taken its toll, and he longed for a hot shower and a large whiskey, not necessarily in that order. He felt dirty, and not just in the literal sense. But before he could indulge his tired body, there was a more pressing issue at hand. Hidden within one of Holland’s many wall safes were two pieces of evidence that were about to destroy Tom’s world yet again; two pieces of evidence that had the power to end their relationship forever.

“Find anything interesting?”

There was a noticeable strain in Tom’s voice, but his expression remained impassive, almost detached. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know what Booker and the uniform officers had found hidden within the walls of Holland’s house of horrors. The reality of it all was becoming too tangible, too confronting, and he didn't know if he was emotionally equipped to deal with the fallout.

Not wanting to discuss his findings while sitting in a car with half a dozen uniformed officers milling around, Booker stalled for time. “Sánchez is speaking to Lupita. She’s been with Holland almost as long as Jorge, so she’s seen a lot. She’s agreed to give a statement and cooperate in any way she can. They’re taking Holland in for questioning, but he’s already lawyered up, so it’s doubtful we’ll get much from him.”

“And?”

It was a leading question, and one Booker chose to ignore. Pulling the car door closed, he inserted his keys in the ignition and fired up the Caddy’s engine.

Tom’s brow knitted into a frown. “You obviously found something, you came out with two evidence bags. Care to share?”

“Not now,” Booker muttered. “Let's wait till we get home.”

“Okay,” Tom reluctantly agreed before holding out his hand. “So, can I have my gun?”

A cloud passed over Booker’s face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tom.”

Annoyed by the response, Tom glared at his partner. “Why the hell not? Is it because I almost wasted Holland or ‘cause you’re afraid I’ll waste myself? I’m still a cop, Booker. I haven’t signed my resignation papers yet, and Fuller gave me back my weapon so I could protect my—”

“Fuller made a mistake.”

Shock widened Tom’s eyes. “You think I’m unfit to carry a gun? Who died and made you boss? So, it’s okay for _you_ to have an anxiety attack, but when _I_ lose control, I’m a danger to society. Well, screw you, Booker. Fuller’s my commanding officer, not you and—”

“I’ve spoken to Fuller,” Booker revealed in a quiet voice. “This is his order, not mine. He’s regretting talking you out of signing your papers until after we searched Holland’s home. He wants to speak to you tomorrow.”

Anger brought a flush of color to Tom’s cheeks, the force of his rage curling his hands into tight fists. “You spoke to Fuller? Well, I guess once a nark, always a nark. I don't know why I’m surprised, ratting people out is what you were trained to do, right?”

“Tom—”

“DON’T _TOM_ ME!” Tom yelled, his mouth inches from Booker’s face. “You had no right telling Fuller. NO FUCKING RIGHT!”

Instead of fighting back, Booker remained annoyingly calm. “If I hadn’t said anything, someone else would’ve. There were half a dozen witnesses, Tom, do you honestly think no one would have talked? You attacked and pointed a gun at a man who was unarmed and not behaving in a threatening manner. I know Holland pissed you off, he pissed me off too, but you were out of line, and he would be well within his rights to lay charges for assault.”

“Oh, you’d just love that, wouldn’t you?” Tom spat, the pain of his betrayal clouding out all rational thought. “Sometimes I think you _want_ Holland to get away with his crimes. Why is that, Booker, huh? Could it be you’re in love with him?”

Enraged at the accusation, Booker jammed the Cadillac into gear and without waiting for Tom to fasten his seat belt, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right. A spray of gravel flew from the tires as they lost traction on the loose stones, but Booker quickly gained control of the skidding vehicle and pressing his foot to the floor, he sped down the driveway. He couldn’t believe Tom was questioning his loyalty, especially with a man like Ingram Holland. But while he was furious at the implication, he was prepared to cut his lover some slack. Tom was under an enormous amount of pressure, and he wasn’t about to end their relationship because of a carelessly spoken comment. But he needed to vent, and so he took his fury out on his Caddy. He shifted through the gears at a frenetic pace, barely touching the brake pedal, allowing the car to skid around the corners of the treacherous country road. Tom sat rigidly beside him, his muscles tense, one hand gripping the door’s armrest in an attempt to keep his body from swaying side to side. Neither man spoke, but by the looks on their faces, it was obvious they both had a lot to say. Their deafening silence spoke volumes, but ultimately, it would be Booker’s confession that would tear them apart.

**

The hour-long drive back to the city gave both men the time they needed to cool off. However, a moody silence still blanketed the atmosphere, making it all the more difficult for Booker to impart the news he knew would destroy Tom’s world. On edge, he waited until Tom was sitting down in their apartment before broaching the subject. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Although not surprised by the statement, the flicker of foreboding churning Tom’s stomach rose to a nervous flutter in his chest. He was about to find out what the search had uncovered, and he had a sick feeling it was all to do with him. 

Swallowing down the anxious lump that had risen into his throat, he looked Booker square in the eye. “Okay, spill. What did you find in Holland’s house that’s made you so jumpy.”

Booker paused for a moment, his agitation evident by the nervous raking of his fingers through his hair. He paced around the room, too wired to sit down, knowing Tom’s reaction would send them both spiraling back into the horrors of their past. But he couldn’t stall forever, and stopping in front of his lover, he took a deep breath and announced his findings. “Holland had dozens of hidden wall safes, which we might not have found if it wasn’t for Lupita. We found passports in several different names, all with Holland’s picture. We also found passports belonging to young men, and hundreds of photos of teenage boys. Lupita told Sánchez that some of Holland’s _companions_ disappeared in the middle of the night, so we’re checking the missing persons register to see if any of the photos match up.”

Tom leaned forward in his chair, his muscles tense. “Go on.”

“We found tens of thousands of dollars hidden throughout the house,” Booker continued. “Which probably isn’t incriminating given Holland’s wealth, but Fuller’s going to get the IRS involved so it may prove vital.”

“And?”

There was an edge to Tom’s voice, a hopeful expectation the information he was about to hear wouldn’t be as bad as what he had conjured up in his mind. But Booker knew he was about to burst that bubble, and with a reluctant sigh, he divulged the truth. “We found hundreds of video tapes, all labeled with names and dates. We also found reels of 8mm film, dating back to the nineteen-fifties.”

Horrified, Tom rubbed a finger over his upper lip. “Jesus,” he muttered. “The sonofabitch has been abusing minors since he was in his twenties? How deep does this go? Is this a ritualistic practice of _all_ the Pi Taus? Do they _all_ grow up to be pedophiles?”

“I dunno, maybe,” Booker replied absently. While the news was appalling, for Tom, the worst was yet to come and taking a seat next to his lover, the dark-haired officer laid a gentle hand on his knee. “Um, Tommy, there’s something else.”

With a frown, Tom’s gaze darted over Booker’s face, searching for answers. “Something else?”

Taking his lover’s hand in his, Booker delivered the news. “There were two other tapes found hidden in a safe. One with your name on it, and one with mine.”

Tom’s muscles stiffened, the color draining from his face, leaving him pale and shaken. “Wh-What?”

With a nod of his head, Booker motioned toward the two evidence bags laying on the table. “Holland videoed you when he… well, you know. I’ve spoken to Fuller, and he’s giving us the opportunity _not_ to enter the tapes into evidence. He could lose his job if the commissioner ever found out, but he understands the delicacy of the situation. If you don’t want anyone viewing your tape, we can destroy it, and no one would ever know.”

The revelation was a lot for Tom to take in, and he remained motionless, his mind in a whirl. He had several choices, but neither one stood out as the preferred course of action. Option number one was to watch the tape and then make his decision. But the thought of seeing Holland fondling him, or worse, made him sick to his stomach. His vague recollections of what had occurred in the oubliette were distressing enough, he wasn’t sure he wanted to watch the whole sordid show complete with surround sound. 

Then there was option number two. He could submit the tape as evidence without ever knowing what it contained. On the positive side, the footage was sure to strengthen the case against Holland, adding another nail to the mogul’s coffin. But the young officer was already coming to terms with the knowledge twelve jurors would see the tape of his rape, and the thought of humiliating himself yet again was almost too much to bear. That left option number three; destroying the tape. At first thought, this seemed the most obvious choice. Fuller had given him an out, but by doing so, his superior officer was also putting his job on the line. If caught, Tom wasn’t sure he could deal with the fallout, the guilt attached to destroying a good man’s career would eat him up inside. The death of Richard Jenko had shaken him to the very core of his being, and he hadn’t been openly receptive when Fuller took on the role as their captain. But over time, they’d become not only close colleagues but friends. Therefore, although tempting, he immediately dismissed the idea. His captain should not have to risk his career to save him from embarrassment. What was done was done, and he needed to face his demons like a man.

When gentle fingers caressed his hair, Tom flinched, the contact breaking through his reverie. His eyes focused on Booker’s worried face, and it was then he remembered his lover had mentioned _two_ tapes. “Holland videoed you too?”

It was the moment Booker had been dreading, and he began to wonder if he’d made a mistake by revealing the existence of _his_ tape. But he couldn’t be in a relationship based on lies, and especially not one with Tom. Since his assault, Hanson had suffered from trust issues, and Booker wasn’t about to be the one to validate his fears. The truth would hurt, but keeping it a secret would do more damage in the long run. And so, rather than prolong the agony, he revealed his private shame. “Yeah, he did. He made a tape of me with Jorge.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “And what _exactly_ are you and Jorge doing on this tape?” 

Overcome with embarrassment, Booker dropped his head, unwilling to meet his lover’s gaze. “I think you know what,” he replied quietly.

Tears filled Tom’s eyes. “It’s a sex tape, isn’t it?” he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. “Holland filmed you fucking Jorge.”

Booker’s face reddened. “Don’t say it like that,” he mumbled, his gaze remaining focused on the floor. “It wasn’t fucking, we were—”

“Making love?”

Stunned Tom would see it that way, Booker’s head snapped up, his wide eyes imploring his lover to understand. “N-No! It wasn’t making love, Tommy, it was manipulation! Holland _manipulated_ us!”

A sardonic smile pulled at Tom’s lips. “That’s bullshit, Booker, and you know it. Manipulation doesn’t give you a boner, being horny does. You were so fucking hard for him you didn’t even care that Holland filmed you. I’m right, aren’t I? You knew Holland was videoing you and you _performed_ like a fucking trained seal. You made a _we_ went through. We were—”

“I can’t listen to this,” Tom muttered and standing up, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Tom, wait!”

But Booker’s desperate plea fell on deaf ears, and the only response he received was the slam of the apartment door.


	56. The Cop and The Pool Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: When gentle fingers caressed his hair, Tom flinched, the contact breaking through his reverie. His eyes focused on Booker’s worried face, and it was then he remembered his lover had mentioned two tapes. “Holland videoed you too?”_
> 
> _It was the moment Booker had been dreading, and he began to wonder if he’d made a mistake by revealing the existence of his tape. But he couldn’t be in a relationship based on lies, and especially not one with Tom. Since his assault, Hanson had suffered from trust issues, and Booker wasn’t about to be the one to validate his fears. The truth would hurt, but keeping it a secret would do more damage in the long run. And so, rather than prolong the agony, he revealed his private shame. “Yeah, he did. He made a tape of me with Jorge.”_
> 
> _Tom’s jaw tightened. “And what exactly are you and Jorge doing on this tape?”_
> 
> _Overcome with embarrassment, Booker dropped his head, unwilling to meet his lover’s gaze. “I think you know what,” he replied quietly._
> 
> _Tears filled Tom’s eyes. “It’s a sex tape, isn’t it?” he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. “Holland filmed you fucking Jorge.”_
> 
> _Booker’s face reddened. “Don’t say it like that,” he mumbled, his gaze remaining focused on the floor. “It wasn’t fucking, we were—”_
> 
> _“Making love?”_
> 
> _Stunned Tom would see it that way, Booker’s head snapped up, his wide eyes imploring his lover to understand. “N-No! It wasn’t making love, Tommy, it was manipulation! Holland manipulated us!”_
> 
> _A sardonic smile pulled at Tom’s lips. “That’s bullshit, Booker, and you know it. Manipulation doesn’t give you a boner, being horny does. You were so fucking hard for him you didn’t even care that Holland filmed you. I’m right, aren’t I? You knew Holland was videoing you and you performed like a fucking trained seal. You made a porno tape, and you made it with him! You fucking… made it... WITH HIM!”_
> 
> _“IT WASN’T LIKE THAT!” Booker yelled, and jumping to his feet, he began to pace the room. “You have no idea what we went through. We were—”_
> 
> _“I can’t listen to this,” Tom muttered and standing up, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch. “I’m going for a walk.”_
> 
> _“Tom wait!”_
> 
> _But Booker’s desperate plea fell on deaf ears, and the only response he received was the slam of the apartment door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35582510920/in/dateposted-public/)

**Two hours later**

A row of evenly spaced street lights cast a yellow glow over the cracked sidewalk, the soft radiance illuminating a path to Tom’s apartment. In the distance, the rumble of traffic echoed through the still night air, the low resonance drowning out the sound of the young officer’s footsteps. But the city’s urban song didn’t stop Tom’s mind from reciting a silent mantra with each footfall. _Dennis... Jorge... Dennis... Jorge... Dennis... Jorge…_ the names jarred painfully inside his head until they became a cohesive whole, _dennisjorgedennisjorgedennisjorge,_ giving validation to the two men’s coupling. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and no matter how much the young officer tried to pretend it had never happened, he could not change reality. Dennis and Jorge had shared a personal experience, an intimate coming together of bodies that he had thus far, only dreamed about. His own painful initiation into gay sex had resulted in a fear of penetration, leaving his and Booker’s relationship hanging precariously in the balance, which had created feelings of regret and inadequacy. What if he could never be the partner Booker deserved? Would his anxiety ultimately force his lover into the arms of his rival? These and other questions swirled through his brain, the thoughts intermingling with his melodic _dennisjorge_ chant, confusing his mind to the point where he could barely think straight. Trapped in a cycle of self-rejection, he was mentally and physically exhausted and on the verge of giving up. For the first time ever, he was without purpose, and he couldn't help but wonder if life had become all too hard.

Turning the corner, Tom slowed his pace. Although he longed for the comfort of his home, the thought of facing Booker filled him with dread, the psychological burden weighing him down. Consequently, he purposely dragged his feet, delaying the confrontation and the inevitable argument. He’d reacted badly to the news of Booker's tape, and his guilt hung like a noose around his neck, waiting for the moment his mind yanked at the metaphorical rope, and the painful castigation crushed his airway. But while his remorse was real, his jealousy was a far bigger beast, a raging fire-breathing monster that easily dominated all other emotions. It was a deep-seated sensation that encompassed feelings of fear, fury, obsession, and humiliation. In his eyes, Jorge was everything he wasn’t; the young Latino had the body of a God, the face of an angel, and was sexually experienced beyond his years. He was the perfect man, and in comparison, Tom felt clumsy and inept. He had nothing to offer his lover except a lifetime of emotional baggage, and in his mind, no rational person would choose a sexually repressed individual over one who offered it up freely, especially not a passionate man like Dennis Booker. Somehow, in his jumble of thoughts, he had forgotten Jorge was also messed-up because all he saw was the perfect exterior and not the psychologically damaged interior of a victim of abuse. It was all an illusion, a fantasy of his own creation, but he couldn’t see past it. Jorge was a divine being, and he was nothing more than a boorish fool.

Stopping outside his building, the young officer stared up at his apartment. No light shone from the windows, and relief relaxed the muscles in his aching shoulders. Rather than waiting for him to return, it appeared Booker had gone to bed, thereby avoiding the inevitable argument that was sure to erupt as soon as he walked through the door. It was a smart move on Booker’s part, and Tom was grateful for the out. He needed time for his mind to acknowledge the existence of the tapes. While one had the power to help convict Holland, the other had the power to destroy a friendship, and he wanted to process the information in a slow and rational manner so he could decide the best way to proceed. One false move and he could ruin the most important relationship of his life; one false move and he could find himself regretting his decision forever.

With his mind made up, the young officer entered the double doors and climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment. He paused for a moment outside his home, listening for any sounds of life before inserting his key and pushing open the door. Light from the last quarter moon shone through the window, the faint glimmer illuminating the room in an ethereal glow. Despite the dimness of the atmosphere, Tom’s gaze immediately fell on a near-empty bottle of whiskey, and he suppressed a sigh. After their argument, Booker had obviously decided to drown his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. Not that Tom could blame him, confronting Holland had opened old wounds, and numbing his mind with alcohol had obviously helped ease Booker’s emotional pain, if only temporarily. But having taken a stroll down the same dark path, Tom knew it wasn’t the answer. Alcohol only masked the pain for the briefest of moments, allowing it to grow and fester once the effects wore off, leaving the mind vulnerable to unwanted thoughts. It was a slippery slope, and Tom hoped Booker was strong enough not to fall for Jack Daniel’s seductive allure by diving head first into the trap of binge drinking.

After flicking on the light, Tom closed and bolted the door. He never felt a hundred percent safe, even with Booker in the apartment, and it wasn’t unusual for him to check the door several times before retiring to bed. But this night, he made the decision to sleep on the couch rather than disturb his lover. He recognized the compromise for what it was; cowardice, but he was in no mood for a fight, especially with a drunken Booker. However, he felt more exposed sleeping out in the open, and so he picked up the remote and switched on the television for company. It was then he spied the two evidence bags on the coffee table, and before he had time to think through the consequences of his actions, he opened one of the bags and pulled out the video.

The words, **‘The cop and the pool boy (Dennis and Jorge shower scene) 10/3/89’** jumped out at him from the label on the spine and his hand shook so violently, he almost dropped the tape on the table. Was it fate that had made him choose that particular bag, or was it just bad luck? He had no idea, but now the video was in his grasp, he knew he had no choice but to watch it. 

With trembling fingers, he pushed the tape into the VCR and sat down on the couch. His thumb hovered over the remote’s play button, hesitant, anxious, unsure if he was doing the right thing by invading his lover’s privacy. But now the idea had surfaced in his mind, the itch became too strong to ignore, and without further thought, he leaned forward and pressed play.

Dennis and Jorge’s naked bodies filled the screen, the droplets of water speckling their bronze skin shimmering under the light of the overhead bulb. The steady thrum of the shower created an exotic backdrop to the erotic scene, an audiovisual stimulation of the senses that would continue to gratify long after the video ended. But for Tom, it was a horror movie in the making. His eyes grew wide, and he stared at the screen in silent dismay as Jorge’s soapy hands moved over Booker’s torso, his long fingers caressing the dark-haired officer’s flesh with slow, sensual strokes. In the background, a low, teasing voice encouraged the young Latino with softly spoken commands. _“That’s it,”_ the mogul directed from behind the camera, his voice dripping with arousal, _“make the dirty whore nice and clean.”_ Unable to look away, Tom watched on, his muscles tense, his mouth pulled into a silent scream. But when Holland issued the command for Jorge to touch Booker’s cock, the young officer broke his silence. A low, anguished howl spilled from between his lips, the guttural cry adding an audible texture to the eroticism of the scene. He had become one with the vision, a voyeuristic observer trapped within the scene playing out on his television screen, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not break the cycle and tear his eyes away. By opening Pandora’s Box, the consequences of his decision would impact on his life forever. But it was when Booker pushed his huge erection into Jorge’s trembling body—a look of pure ecstasy radiating from his beautiful face—that Tom completely lost control of his emotions. Loud sobs racked his body, and burying his face in his hands, he mourned the loss of the man he loved. Nothing would ever be the same again.

When the tape eventually turned to static, Tom rubbed a hand over his tear-stained face and switched off the VCR. But there was no escaping the erotic vision, the image had anchored itself in the annals of his mind, the memory biting into the flesh of his conscious thought. Tiny beads of water glistening on a chiseled body, hips thrusting forward in carnal delight, it was a coupling like no other, a work of art, an aesthetic vignette of motion and texture uniting two men as one. But it was more than just sex, it was a transcendent moment in time that could never be replicated, no matter how hard others tried. Theirs was a uniquely beautiful pairing, and it was then Tom knew he could never compete. He was a mere flicker in the shining light of two Adonises. He was transparent, a ghost, and it was clear he did not belong. He might as well not exist at all. He was, in a word, obsolete.

Out of nowhere, the Sesame Street song, _‘One of These Things Is Not Like the Others’_ popped into Tom’s head, and with a sad smile, he wiped a rogue tear from his cheek. But just as he had made up his mind to tell Booker it was over, a strident voice inside his head told him to stop being so pathetic and fight, fight, fight! Despite the roller coaster ride that was their friendship, Booker had chosen _him_ as a partner, not Jorge, and he needed to stop doubting his lover’s motives and treat him with the respect he deserved. But it wasn’t quite as easy as that. If their relationship was to survive, he needed to overcome his fears and give Booker the greatest gift he could offer; his unconditional love. It was a huge step for someone who only three months before had been violently raped by seven strangers, but it was a sacrifice Tom was willing to make. His love was absolute, and he wanted to experience the same level of passion his lover had once shared with Jorge. He wanted to feel loved. He wanted to be Booker’s everything.

A gratifying calm eased the tension in the young officer’s weary body, and lying down on the couch, he drew his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes. Eventually, his breathing slowed, his mind content in the knowledge that when he awoke, he would set the ball in motion and achieve his ultimate goal.


	57. Chapter Fifty Seven – Veritas, Unitas, Caritas  (Truth, Unity, Love)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Dennis and Jorge’s naked bodies filled the screen, the droplets of water speckling their bronze skin shimmering under the light of the overhead bulb. The steady thrum of the shower created an exotic backdrop to the erotic scene, an audiovisual stimulation of the senses that would continue to gratify long after the video ended. But for Tom, it was a horror movie in the making. His eyes grew wide, and he stared at the screen in silent dismay as Jorge’s soapy hands moved over Booker’s torso, his long fingers caressing the dark-haired officer’s flesh with slow, sensual strokes. In the background, a low, teasing voice encouraged the young Latino with softly spoken commands. “That’s it,” the mogul directed from behind the camera, his voice dripping with arousal, “make the dirty whore nice and clean.” Unable to look away, Tom watched on, his muscles tense, his mouth pulled into a silent scream. But when Holland issued the command for Jorge to touch Booker’s cock, the young officer broke his silence. A low, anguished howl spilled from between his lips, the guttural cry adding an audible texture to the eroticism of the scene. He had become one with the vision, a voyeuristic observer trapped within the scene playing out on his television screen, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not break the cycle and tear his eyes away. By opening Pandora’s Box, the consequences of his decision would impact on his life forever. But it was when Booker pushed his huge erection into Jorge’s trembling body—a look of pure ecstasy radiating from his beautiful face—that Tom completely lost control of his emotions. Loud sobs racked his body, and burying his face in his hands, he mourned the loss of the man he loved. Nothing would ever be the same again._
> 
> _When the tape eventually turned to static, Tom rubbed a hand over his tear-stained face and switched off the VCR. But there was no escaping the erotic vision, the image had anchored itself in the annals of his mind, the memory biting into the flesh of his conscious thought. Tiny beads of water glistening on a chiseled body, hips thrusting forward in carnal delight, it was a coupling like no other, a work of art, an aesthetic vignette of motion and texture uniting two men as one. But it was more than just sex, it was a transcendent moment in time that could never be replicated, no matter how hard others tried. Theirs was a uniquely beautiful pairing, and it was then Tom knew he could never compete. He was a mere flicker in the shining light of two Adonises. He was transparent, a ghost, and it was clear he did not belong. He might as well not exist at all. He was, in a word, obsolete._
> 
> _Out of nowhere, the Sesame Street song, ‘One of These Things Is Not Like the Others’ popped into Tom’s head, and with a sad smile, he wiped a rogue tear from his cheek. But just as he had made up his mind to tell Booker it was over, a strident voice inside his head told him to stop being so pathetic and fight, fight, fight! Despite the roller coaster ride that was their friendship, Booker had chosen him as a partner, not Jorge, and he needed to stop doubting his lover’s motives and treat him with the respect he deserved. But it wasn’t quite as easy as that. If their relationship was to survive, he needed to overcome his fears and give Booker the greatest gift he could offer; his unconditional love. It was a huge step for someone who only three months before had been violently raped by seven strangers, but it was a sacrifice Tom was willing to make. His love was absolute, and he wanted to experience the same level of passion his lover had once shared with Jorge. He wanted to feel loved. He wanted to be Booker’s everything._
> 
> _A gratifying calm eased the tension in the young officer’s weary body, and lying down on the couch, he drew his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes. Eventually, his breathing slowed, his mind content in the knowledge that when he awoke, he would set the ball in motion and achieve his ultimate goal._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35800936902/in/dateposted-public/)

Tom woke from a fitful night’s sleep, his cramped legs aching, his body exhausted by fatigue. With a groan, he sat up, and raking a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood up. His limbs tingled with pins and needles (the end result of sleeping in a confined space), and he shook his arms and stamped his feet until normal sensation returned. Once satisfied he could move freely, he headed toward the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the day before, and his stomach growled in protest, the emptiness inside his gut competing with the emptiness inside his heart. The tape’s erotic images had infiltrated his dreams, except in his fevered vision, Jorge was mocking him, his expression taunting, daring him to try and compete. The nightmare had played on repeat throughout the night, torturing Tom to the point of insanity. But as he stood in the kitchen, the sun’s morning rays soothing his aching muscles, he accepted it for what it was; a dream, a disturbing hallucination of the mind. Despite what had happened between Dennis and Jorge, he had the power to change the dynamic. All he had to do was find the courage to surrender his body completely, and he and Booker could have the happy ever after they both craved.

A loud slam yanked Tom’s mind back to the present and turning around, he stared at the open bedroom door. Seconds later, he heard the shower turn on, followed by the sound of water hitting the tiled wall, the steady thrum echoing throughout the small apartment. Slowly, an idea formed in his mind, the concept bringing a smile to his lips. It was Providence, a sign from the Gods, and he could not let the opportunity pass without taking action. He’d procrastinated too long by allowing his fear to dictate his feelings. But all that was in the past. It was time to move forward, to push aside his misgivings and embrace life to the fullest. It was time for him to prove to Booker just how much he loved him.

With his hunger temporarily forgotten, he hurriedly stripped off his clothes and threw them onto the couch. Naked, he padded across the living room floor, the erratic thump of his heart pounding loudly in his ears. His skin prickled with anticipation, the paleness of his face and tremor in his hands betraying his internal struggle and the uncertainty of his decision. But he pushed through his anxiety, determined to carry out his plan. It was his time, and before he could allow his nerves to get the better of him, he inhaled a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. 

A sudden gust of air rushed through the steam-filled room, the breeze rippling the shower curtain against Booker’s legs. Surprised, he pulled back the vinyl drape, his eyes widening as he took in his lover’s naked form. “Tom, is everything—”

“Can I join you?” Tom crooned, and without waiting for an answer, he stepped into the stall. Taking the soap from Booker's hand, he lathered it into a foam, the oval bar rotating smoothly through his fingers. He’d memorized Jorge’s technique, and placing the soap in the holder, he rubbed his scented hands over his lover’s naked torso.

“This is what you like, right?” he purred, his tender touch caressing the taut flesh of Booker’s chest, the circular motion inching slowly downward with each sensual stroke. “This is what makes you horny.”

Uncomfortable with the way Tom was behaving, Booker took hold of his wrists and gently pulled his hands away. “Don’t.”

It was not the reaction Tom expected and hurt by his lover’s rejection, his lower lip pushed into a pout. “Why not?” he sulked. “You didn’t seem to mind when _he_ did it.”

A slow dawning of understanding registered on Booker’s face, the roller coaster of emotion playing out in a matter of seconds. Confusion quickly turned to disbelief, followed closely by annoyance before manifesting into full-blown rage. Unable to contain his fury, he shoved his hands against Tom’s chest, the force sending the young officer staggering back against the tiled wall. “You watched the tape? Jesus Christ, Hanson, who gave you permission to tamper with _my_ evidence? You fucking sonofabitch, how dare you!”

Although guilty on all counts, Tom still managed to take the moral high ground. “Yeah, I did! And you can protest all you fucking like, but I _saw_ how he made you feel, I fucking _saw_ it with my own two eyes! He made you so fucking horny you were about to blow your load before he even touched you!”

“Get outta my way,” Booker demanded, and ripping back the shower curtain, he pushed past Tom, eager to get some distance between them. “I don’t need to listen to this shit.”

“It’s because I’m not him, isn’t it?”

Tom’s softly spoken question stopped Booker in his tracks and turning around, he stared at his lover in annoyance. “What are you talking about _now?”_

There was an edge to Booker’s voice that should have warned Tom not to push, but the young officer was past caring. He was tired, his confidence had taken a beating, and he wanted to hear the truth, no matter how devastating. 

After turning off the faucets, Tom stepped out of the shower cubicle and confronted his lover, his misery clearly evident by the strained timbre of his voice. “I came in here because I wanted to have sex with you. Not oral sex, _proper_ sex, just like you and Jorge. But it’s obvious I’m not who you want because you turned me down.”

If Tom expected an apology, he was gravely mistaken. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Booker snapped, the muscles in his jaw flexing in rhythm with the torrent of his words. “Why the fuck would you want to replicate something that happened between Jorge and me? That’s sick, Hanson. It’s fucking sick. You need to get over your obsession with him and move on.”

Outraged, Tom lashed out, his palms striking Booker in the chest. “What’s wrong with _me?_ What the fuck’s wrong with _you?_ Look at you, Booker, you’re not even aroused! How the fuck do you think that makes me feel? I walk into the room, stark naked and attempt to initiate sex and you’re still fucking flaccid!”

Suddenly feeling exposed, Booker grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. “That’s got nothing to do with you,” he muttered.

“Really?” Tom challenged, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. “Well, if it’s not me, then what is it?”

When Booker remained silent, Tom knew he had his answer. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he replied sadly, and pulling a towel from the chrome railing, he exited the bathroom.

**

Dressed in a pair of boxers, Booker pushed open the bedroom door and entered the room. His damp hair hung in loose strands around his face, the dozens of tiny water droplets clinging to his bronzed flesh glistening in the sunlight streaming in through the open window. He was a vision of exquisite beauty, but his expression projected only sadness. He’d fucked up big time, and he needed to make things right.

Tom lay on the bed, his naked body curled in the fetal position, his eyes closed against the bright rays which suffused his lids with an orange glow. He was tired of fighting, tired of feeling less than a man and all he wanted was to go to sleep and wake up to find the past three months were nothing more than a fevered nightmare of his own imagination.

“I’m sorry.”

The simple apology hung in the air, waiting for acceptance. Without bothering to lift his head, Tom mumbled his reply into the pillow, his words barely audible. “Sorry for what? For not lusting after me like you do him, or for being an asshole?”

It took all of Booker’s willpower to ignore the deliberate provocation and not retaliate with a scathing comeback. He clenched his jaw, capturing the angry retort behind his teeth before it could be released. Several long seconds passed before he felt calm enough to respond, and sitting down on the bed, he laid a hand on Tom’s thigh. “For not explaining myself properly.”

Tom took a moment to digest Booker’s words before acknowledging their existence by opening his eyes. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, his hurt still too raw for him to look his lover in the eye. But despite his disillusionment, he was willing to give the dark-haired officer a chance to justify his actions. He owed him that much, even if it was the end of their relationship.

“Go on,” he prompted, his jaw tightening in anticipation.

Booker released his breath in a slow, heavy sigh. He had no idea if his explanation would satisfy his lover, but what he was about to say was the truth, and that was all he had to give. “When you came into the shower, it brought back memories of Jorge. What we shared was an intimate and pleasurable experience, I won’t deny that. But it wasn’t love, Tom, it was _need._ We needed comfort, and yeah, there was an attraction, but that’s all it was. We wanted to get off, and we did. End of story.”

The muscles beneath his hand tensed, his lover’s body rigid and unmoving under the weight of his revelation. Seconds ticked into minutes, and just when he thought the silence would drag on forever, Tom posed the obvious question. “Then why wouldn’t you have sex with me?”

The question sizzled in the air like a live wire, electric, powerful, its intensity having the capability to destroy lives. But for Booker, the answer was simple and brushing the hair from Tom’s eyes, he revealed his reasons. “Because I won’t treat you like a whore.”

Tom’s head jerked to the side, his dark eyes meeting Booker’s calm gaze. “What?”

Releasing another world-weary sigh, Booker’s shoulders sagged, and he lowered his eyes to the floor. “You told me once that you wouldn’t be my whore. I’m not proud of what I did that day, but the way I treated Jorge was so much worse than that. I… Shit, this is so hard to say. I used him, Tommy, I used his body to satisfy my own selfish needs. In the beginning, I thought I loved him, but I was kidding myself. I was angry at you… no, I _blamed_ you for putting me in that situation. And before you say anything, I know it wasn’t your fault, you didn’t ask me to get the tapes, I did it because I was in love with you. But it didn’t take long for me to realize I’d made a mistake and… well... let’s just say Holland’s treatment of me screwed with my mind. I wasn’t myself, I was seriously fucked up. I treated Jorge like a slut, but the worst part is, he let me, and I’m not going to make the same mistake again.” 

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Tom laid a hand on Booker’s arm. _“Was_ in love with me?” he queried softly, one eyebrow rising in question.

 _“Am_ in love with you,” Booker clarified with a smile.

Tom chewed on his lower lip, his forehead wrinkling into a thoughtful frown. “What if I can’t pleasure you the way _he_ did? Will you still love me then?”

Frustrated he wasn’t able to allay Tom’s fears, Booker cupped the young officer’s face in his hand and slowly traced his thumb over his full, enticing lips. “I don’t want you to be _him,_ Tommy, I want you to be _you._ The way you came onto me in the shower was... I dunno, it felt fake, and I guess that’s why I wasn’t aroused. I won’t lie, I dream of the day we’ll have sex, but I only want it to happen when you’re ready, and not because you’re trying to prove something to me.”

The level of astuteness shown by Booker was rare in men, but he was one of the few who possessed the gift of intuition. He’d seen straight through Tom’s charade, but while many would have taken advantage of the situation, he’d learned from past mistakes. After living years in an abusive household, Jorge had viewed him as his knight in shining armor. He was his companion, his lover, and eventually, his rescuer. But once they’d returned to their lives, he’d discarded him like a used Kleenex, leaving him to fend alone in a world that was now unfamiliar. It was a shitty thing to do, and he regretted his actions every day. While he had a reputation as a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy, the truth was very different. Jorge was the first person he’d used for sexual gratification and comfort alone, and while he recognized he wasn’t of sound mind at the time, it still gnawed at his conscience. Consequently, he was not about to make the same mistake twice. As much as he longed to feel Tom writhing beneath him, he would not take advantage of a desperate man. What he had with Tom was so much more than sex, and he wasn’t about to do anything to ruin what could be, a forever relationship.

“Tommy?” Booker prompted softly when he received no reply. “Did you hear what I said?”

Embarrassed by his actions, Tom nodded his reply. What had seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment had been revealed for what it was; an act of foolish desperation. Never had he felt so stupid, but sometimes, love made you do the wacky and all he could do was hope Booker would forgive his moment of insanity.

Sensing Tom’s misgivings, Booker lay down on the bed and held out his arms. “C’mere, baby,” he whispered and pulling Tom against his chest, his fingers lightly stroked his damp hair. “Forget about Jorge. I can’t change the past, but you’ve got to believe me, there’s _nothing_ between us. It’s _you_ I love, and no matter what happens, you’re the one I wanna be with, okay?”

With the embarrassment of the morning’s events slowly fading from his mind, Tom snuggled into the warmth of Booker’s body and closed his eyes. “Yeah, I know,” he murmured. “I love you too.” 

Booker placed a tender kiss on the top of Tom’s head and closing his eyes, he drifted off to the sound of his lover’s rhythmic breathing, secure in the knowledge their relationship was, once again, back on track.


	58. Let’s Kiss Our past Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Pushing himself into a sitting position, Tom laid a hand on Booker’s arm. “Was in love with me?” he queried softly, one eyebrow rising in question._
> 
> _“Am in love with you,” Booker clarified with a smile._
> 
> _Tom chewed on his lower lip, his forehead wrinkling into a thoughtful frown. “What if I can’t pleasure you the way he did? Will you still love me then?”_
> 
> _Frustrated he wasn’t able to allay Tom’s fears, Booker cupped the young officer’s face in his hand and slowly traced his thumb over his full, enticing lips. “I don’t want you to be him, Tommy, I want you to be you. The way you came onto me in the shower was... I dunno, it felt fake, and I guess that’s why I wasn’t aroused. I won’t lie, I dream of the day we’ll have sex, but I only want it to happen when you’re ready, and not because you’re trying to prove something to me.”_
> 
> _The level of astuteness shown by Booker was rare in men, but he was one of the few who possessed the gift of intuition. He’d seen straight through Tom’s charade, but while many would have taken advantage of the situation, he’d learned from past mistakes. After living years in an abusive household, Jorge had viewed him as his knight in shining armor. He was his companion, his lover, and eventually, his rescuer. But once they’d returned to their lives, he’d discarded him like a used Kleenex, leaving him to fend alone in a world that was now unfamiliar. It was a shitty thing to do, and he regretted his actions every day. While he had a reputation as a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy, the truth was very different. Jorge was the first person he’d used for sexual gratification and comfort alone, and while he recognized he wasn’t of sound mind at the time, it still gnawed at his conscience. Consequently, he was not about to make the same mistake twice. As much as he longed to feel Tom writhing beneath him, he would not take advantage of a desperate man. What he had with Tom was so much more than sex, and he wasn’t about to do anything to ruin what could be, a forever relationship._
> 
> _“Tommy?” Booker prompted softly when he received no reply. “Did you hear what I said?”_
> 
> _Embarrassed by his actions, Tom nodded his reply. What had seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment had been revealed for what it was; an act of foolish desperation. Never had he felt so stupid, but sometimes, love made you do the wacky and all he could do was hope Booker would forgive his moment of insanity._
> 
> _Sensing Tom’s misgivings, Booker lay down on the bed and held out his arms. “C’mere, baby,” he whispered and pulling Tom against his chest, his fingers lightly stroked his damp hair. “Forget about Jorge. I can’t change the past, but you’ve got to believe me, there’s nothing between us. It’s you I love, and no matter what happens, you’re the one I wanna be with, okay?”_
> 
> _With the embarrassment of the morning’s events slowly fading from his mind, Tom snuggled into the warmth of Booker’s body and closed his eyes. “Yeah, I know,” he murmured. “I love you too.”_
> 
> _Booker placed a tender kiss on the top of Tom’s head and closing his eyes, he drifted off to the sound of his lover’s rhythmic breathing, secure in the knowledge their relationship was, once again, back on track._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35800957522/in/dateposted-public/)

**The following day**

Rain clouds blanketed the city, the light drizzle falling from the sky doing little to dispel the unwelcoming ambience of the Chapel’s gloomy exterior. From the shelter of his Mustang, Tom stared up at the building through the rain-spattered windshield, tears of nostalgia shimmering in his eyes. He’d spent some of the best years of his life working in a job he loved, with people he adored, and helping keep the streets safe from criminals was just an added bonus. It had always been his dream to follow in his father’s footsteps, and he’d achieved his goal through hard work and dogged determination. But through no fault of his own, his career was now over, and a wistful smile played over his lips. With a stroke of a pen, he had ended it all, the heaviness weighing on his heart a strange mixture of anger, regret, and acceptance. The Pi Taus had not only robbed him of his innocence, but they had also robbed him of his identity, leaving him without purpose. His life had taken a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, and while he had no idea in which direction he was headed, he knew he had little choice but to acknowledge the change and go with it. His mindset had changed, and as much as he wished it wasn’t true, he knew he was no longer capable of functioning as a police officer. His happy-go-lucky nature had manifested into fully-fledged paranoia, he only trusted a handful of people and strangers made him jumpy. Consequently, his carefully honed senses had become dulled, muted to the point of deafness. He viewed everyone with suspicion, especially men, and a cop with that sized chip on his shoulder was a shooting waiting to happen. He’d survived his career without taking another person’s life, and he was astute enough and prudent enough to know when to lay down his gun and walk away. 

Taking one last look at the place that had become his second home, he maneuvered the Mustang’s shifter into gear, and pressing his foot on the gas, he pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward his apartment.

**

**Christmas Eve**

The tip of the balsam fir almost touched the ceiling, each branch bent low with its burden of shiny baubles. The heady scent of pine filled the room, the woody aroma bringing a hint of the outdoors into the small apartment. Booker lay stretched out on the couch, a glass of scotch held in one hand. His docile gaze followed Tom’s every move as the ex-cop adorned the handsome tree with the colorful spheres. An undeniable love shone from his eyes, his expression radiating a contentment that had been missing for the longest time. For the first time in months, there was a calmness about Tom, an overall tranquility that had been lacking since his assault, and although only four days had passed since his resignation, he finally seemed at peace with his decision. For Booker, however, the change was a double-edged sword. While thankful Tom was no longer employed in a dangerous job, he knew he would miss working alongside such an enigmatic character. Hanson was a one-in-a-million partner; sensitive, humorous, intelligent, energetic, he had all the traits of a good cop. However, what stood out most for Booker was what he liked to refer to as his lover’s third eye. Tom saw a glimmer of humanity in even the most hardened of teenage criminals and knowing he was responsible for sending them to juvenile detention had always weighed heavily on his conscience. But all that had changed since his assault, and his welcoming, white-turret castle had become a jaded dungeon of cynicism. He’d lost the altruism that set him apart from so many others on the force, and it was then Booker knew his resignation was for the best. A nervous, paranoid cop was a dangerous cop, and there were enough of those without adding another to the mix.

But the last thing Booker wanted to do was spoil the mood by reflecting on the past and swallowing the last of his drink, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and sat up. “Looks good.”

Tom turned, a slow, sweet smile tilting his lips. “I know you probably think it’s stupid, but I’ve never had a real Christmas tree before.”

Placing his glass on the coffee table, Booker stood up and approached his lover. “Baby,” he murmured, his arms wrapping around his lover’s narrow waist. “If it makes _you_ happy, _I’m_ happy, even if I spend the next week sweeping up the needles.” 

Relieved he wasn’t making a fool of himself, Tom relaxed against Booker’s muscular body, and nuzzling against his neck, he breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne. “Happy enough to wanna fool around?”

Booker’s muscles stiffened. Since Tom’s disastrous attempt at seduction, neither man had felt comfortable initiating sex, leaving them both frustrated and unsure how to proceed. But now Tom had opened the subject up for discussion, there was nowhere to hide. If they didn’t work through their problems, they risked becoming just another statistic on the scrap heap of failed relationships, and after everything they’d endured, it seemed an unfitting ending to such an epic tale. Theirs was a story of resilience in the face of overwhelming adversity, the buried seed of love sprouting through the cracks of their pain, flourishing, arms outstretched toward the healing light of their salvation. They’d weathered the worst storm of their lives, and they’d come through the other side battered but triumphant. United, their mutual respect had blossomed into something more than either of them ever thought possible, a deep, passionate love that ignited their souls. But the horror of Tom’s rape was never far from either of their minds, the ripple effect impacting on their ability to take their relationship to the next level, the uncertainty leaving them both wanting. 

“Is that a no?”

The quietly spoken question tugged at Booker’s heart and stepping back, he cupped his lover’s face in his hand. “It’s not a no, Tom,” he explained softly, his dark, affectionate eyes portraying his uncertainty. “It’s an I _don’t_ know.”

Tom’s brows pulled together in irritation, his whiskey-laced pout reminding Booker of a petulant child. “You don’t know if you want to fool around? What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means I want to, but I’m scared.”

The honesty reflected in the answer stunned Tom into silence. But eventually, he found his voice, and staring into Booker’s eyes, he conveyed his confusion. “Scared? Scared of what?”

“Hurting you.”

Again, Tom’s brow puckered into a deep furrow as he struggled to make sense of Booker’s strange confession. “I don’t understand. Hurt me how? I thought we cleared all this up the other day.”

The sag of Booker’s shoulders revealed his inner turmoil, and taking Tom by the hand, he led him over to the couch. Once seated, he spoke his mind. “I’m not talking about emotional hurt, I’m talking about _physical_ hurt. You say you’re ready to have sex, but… I dunno, Tom, what if what they did to you damaged you somehow and when we… I mean, what if I _do_ something and it causes you pain?”

Despite Booker’s rather cryptic rhetoric, understanding dawned in Tom’s eyes. His lover was afraid penetrative sex would somehow aggravate the internal injury he’d suffered when seven men violently raped him without the use of lubrication. It was a turning point in their relationship because it was then Tom knew for certain Booker loved him unconditionally. Sex was a big part of the dark-haired officer’s life, he was an overtly passionate, demonstrative man who enjoyed physical contact. Consequently, since Tom’s body had reawakened after his assault, intimacy had played a large role in their relationship. So, for Booker to be the one to admit he was reluctant to have sex was a revelation. Tom’s confidence had taken a beating after his rape, and he had always believed he was letting his partner down by not giving of himself completely. But in reality that wasn’t the case. Neither man had felt secure enough to take the next step and knowing this gave Tom the self-assurance to take charge and make it happen.

With a reassuring smile, the ex-cop took Booker’s hand in both of his and held it up to his chest, the warmth of his fingers radiating through the dark-haired officer’s flesh. “I love you for caring so much, but I’m o _-kay._ The doctors at the hospital assured me there’s no permanent damage, and it’s been three months, so everything should have healed by now. I know you’re scared, I am too, but I _want_ this, Dennis, I _really_ want this. I’ve lost so much… my dignity, my job, even my friends treat me differently. But you stood by me, hell, you even put your own life in danger to make me happy. That’s no small thing, and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you. You’re my everything, and I want you to understand this isn’t just a fling for me. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and I want to start the new chapter of my life with you. But the only way I can do that is to let go of the fear and move forward, and I want you to do the same, okay? I want us to be a proper couple, and that way, whatever happens in court, we’ve still won because we’ll have each other.”

The poignant words hung in the air like a rain cloud, their meaning slowly pitter-pattering through Booker’s mind like a shower sprinkling from a summer sky. His baby was finally healing, giving promise of a happy future, and placing a hand behind Tom’s neck, he pulled him in for a kiss. “I love you too, baby,” he murmured against the soft flesh of his lover’s lips. “And I want this as much as you do. So, if you want to...”

Tom grinned. “If I _want_ to?” he teased, his tongue lightly caressing the fullness of Booker’s seductive pout. “Weren’t you listening? Of _course_ I—shit!”

Mourning the abrupt loss of contact, Booker sat back, his sulky expression pushing out his lower lip. “You’re not bailing on me are you, Tommy?”

Regret animated Tom’s features, one corner of his mouth curling into an apologetic smile. “We’re supposed to meet the others at the bowling alley in an hour.”

Disappointment shone in Booker’s eyes. If they’d had plans with anyone else, he would have suggested they blow it off and get right to the good stuff. But he recognized the importance of the gathering. Having barely socialized for the last three months, it was a relief to see Tom excited at the thought of spending time with his Jump Street friends. To the casual observer, the informal gathering was no big deal, but for Tom, it was another small step toward a normal life, and one the dark-haired officer hoped would boost his lover’s confidence. Tom had isolated himself for too long and knowing he now felt comfortable enough to leave the sanctuary of their home was cause for celebration. His friendship with Penhall was back on track, and Fuller, Ioki, and Hoffs were taking the time to reconnect after a noticeable absence. The fractures in his world were finally starting to realign, the jagged edges slowly coming together to form a cohesive and safe environment, and although Booker still had issues with each of the Jump Street officers, he hoped one day, they would forgive his past transgressions and accept him as Tom’s partner. It would take time, but time was not their enemy. They had the rest of their lives to prove to the skeptics they were meant to be together, and if they still failed, they would accept the right to an opinion and move forward with a nod and a smile. 

“Rain check?” Tom suggested, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from his lover’s face.

Booker’s lower lip pushed into a faux pout. “You owe me big time, Hanson.”

“That’s the plan,” Tom replied with a laugh, one eyebrow waggling theatrically.

A frustrated groan escaped from between Booker’s lips. “You’re killing me.”

Smiling, Tom stood up, his hand lightly tapping his lover’s leg. “C’mon, we need to get ready.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Booker pushed himself off the couch and followed Tom into the bedroom.


	59. It's the Time of the Season for Loving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Well, folks, this is it, the final _TWO_ chapters of 'Beneath a Heart of Darkness'. Thank you all for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I've loved writing it. A big hug to Ute for giving me the encouragement to keep writing these tales. Love ya, girl!**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: It was a turning point in their relationship because it was then Tom knew for certain Booker loved him unconditionally. Sex was a big part of the dark-haired officer’s life, he was an overtly passionate, demonstrative man who enjoyed physical contact. Consequently, since Tom’s body had reawakened after his assault, intimacy had played a large role in their relationship. So, for Booker to be the one to admit he was reluctant to have sex was a revelation. Tom’s confidence had taken a beating after his rape, and he had always believed he was letting his partner down by not giving of himself completely. But in reality that wasn’t the case. Neither man had felt secure enough to take the next step and knowing this gave Tom the self-assurance to take charge and make it happen._
> 
> _With a reassuring smile, the ex-cop took Booker’s hand in both of his and held it up to his chest, the warmth of his fingers radiating through the dark-haired officer’s flesh. “I love you for caring so much, but I’m o-kay. The doctors at the hospital assured me there’s no permanent damage, and it’s been three months, so everything should have healed by now. I know you’re scared, I am too, but I want this, Dennis, I really want this. I’ve lost so much… my dignity, my job, even my friends treat me differently. But you stood by me, hell, you even put your own life in danger to make me happy. That’s no small thing, and I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you. You’re my everything, and I want you to understand this isn’t just a fling for me. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and I want to start the new chapter of my life with you. But the only way I can do that is to let go of the fear and move forward, and I want you to do the same, okay? I want us to be a proper couple, and that way, whatever happens in court, we’ve still won because we’ll have each other.”_
> 
> _The poignant words hung in the air like a rain cloud, their meaning slowly pitter-pattering through Booker’s mind like a shower sprinkling from a summer sky. His baby was finally healing, giving promise of a happy future, and placing a hand behind Tom’s neck, he pulled him in for a kiss. “I love you too, baby,” he murmured against the soft flesh of his lover’s lips. “And I want this as much as you do. So, if you want to...”_
> 
> _Tom grinned. “If I want to?” he teased, his tongue lightly caressing the fullness of Booker’s seductive pout. “Weren’t you listening? Of course I—shit!”_
> 
> _Mourning the abrupt loss of contact, Booker sat back, his sulky expression pushing out his lower lip. “You’re not bailing on me are you, Tommy?”_
> 
> _Regret animated Tom’s features, one corner of his mouth curling into an apologetic smile. “We’re supposed to meet the others at the bowling alley in an hour.”_
> 
> _Disappointment shone in Booker’s eyes. If they’d had plans with anyone else, he would have suggested they blow it off and get right to the good stuff. But he recognized the importance of the gathering. Having barely socialized for the last three months, it was a relief to see Tom excited at the thought of spending time with his Jump Street friends. To the casual observer, the informal gathering was no big deal, but for Tom, it was another small step toward a normal life, and one the dark-haired officer hoped would boost his lover’s confidence. Tom had isolated himself for too long and knowing he now felt comfortable enough to leave the sanctuary of their home was cause for celebration. His friendship with Penhall was back on track, and Fuller, Ioki, and Hoffs were taking the time to reconnect after a noticeable absence. The fractures in his world were finally starting to realign, the jagged edges slowly coming together to form a cohesive and safe environment, and although Booker still had issues with each of the Jump Street officers, he hoped one day, they would forgive his past transgressions and accept him as Tom’s partner. It would take time, but time was not their enemy. They had the rest of their lives to prove to the skeptics they were meant to be together, and if they still failed, they would accept the right to an opinion and move forward with a nod and a smile._
> 
> _“Rain check?” Tom suggested, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from his lover’s face._
> 
> _Booker’s lower lip pushed into a faux pout. “You owe me big time, Hanson.”_
> 
> _“That’s the plan,” Tom replied with a laugh, one eyebrow waggling theatrically._
> 
> _A frustrated groan escaped from between Booker’s lips. “You’re killing me.”_
> 
> _Smiling, Tom stood up, his hand lightly tapping his lover’s leg. “C’mon, we need to get ready.”_
> 
> _With an exaggerated sigh, Booker pushed himself off the couch and followed Tom into the bedroom._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35800988712/in/album-72157686234243026/)

**Three days later**

The private function room of the BoHo was packed with off-duty police officers, their animated conversations muffled by the sound of the live band playing on a makeshift stage at the back of the room. From his position at the bar, Booker watched Tom as he laughed and chatted to Ioki and Hoffs, his face a picture of happiness, the stress of the past few months temporarily forgotten. For the dark-haired officer, Tom’s send-off was important, a rite of passage he more than deserved after serving his city and its people with such bravery and honesty. His lover had been an exceptional cop, and he knew in his heart, whatever career path Tom chose, he would excel. Hanson always went above and beyond the call of duty, and Booker envied the people who would benefit from his intelligence and ingenuity. He would miss that in the field, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that after a hard day’s work, he would come home to the man he adored. They had the rest of their lives to spend together, the unknown ups and downs adding an element of intrigue to what was sure to be an exciting ride, despite the hardships they’d endured.

Out of the corner of his eye, Booker saw Penhall approach, and he steeled himself for what he was sure would be a barbed comment. But he was taken aback when the officer greeted him with a friendly clap on the back. “Hey, Booker.”

Booker replied with a nod of his head. “Hey, Doug. Great party.”

Nostalgia relaxed the edges of Penhall’s mouth. “He looks happy,” he murmured, his gaze fixing on Tom’s smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him so relaxed.”

“Yeah,” Booker agreed. “It hasn’t been easy, but I think he’s finally starting to heal.”

“Thanks to you.”

Surprise arched Booker’s eyebrows. “Do you really mean that?”

Sensing an opportunity, Penhall grabbed Booker by the arm and steered him into an adjoining bar. The near empty room afforded them some level of privacy, and taking a seat at a table, Penhall motioned for Booker to join him. The confession he was about to make was long overdue and feeling awkward, it took him a moment to find his voice. “When I found out what happened at the frat house, I swore I’d make you pay for what you did to Tom.”

There was no malice in Penhall’s words. It was a simple statement of fact, an admission of guilt with an undertone of remorse inflected in the softly spoken delivery. His love for Tom had blinded him to Booker’s true intentions, and he wanted to apologize so they could put the past behind them and move forward as friends.

Unsure how to respond, Booker’s lips twitched at the corners. “Um, okay.”

Exhaling a weighty sigh, Penhall rested his palms on the table as he struggled to make himself understood. “What I’m trying to say is, I was wrong. I treated you like shit, and I was wrong. You didn’t hurt Tom, you were there for him when no one else was, and even though I’m still kinda uncomfortable with the two of you as a couple, I’m grateful to you for helping him through the most difficult time of his life. I owe you, Booker. I owe you for giving me my Tommy back.”

It was the strangest apology Booker had ever received, but the sentiment behind the clumsily composed admission had a profound effect on him. He had thought he’d have to go throughout his working life forever burdened with the stigma of being labeled a rapist. But it appeared his toughest critic was finally prepared to admit he was wrong, and with that apology came a glimmer of hope. Perhaps his life at Jump Street would return to normal, and he would once again, feel a part of a team. A lot had changed since that fateful day when he and Tom had walked down the steps to the Pi Tau basement. They had innocently believed they could handle whatever ritualistic practice the fraternity used as their rite of passage, but the reality had been far more disturbing. A part of both men had died in that basement, and when they had staggered out of the Folk Victorian house, battered, bleeding, and broken, they had left their former lives behind them. For Tom, the worst had already happened, for Booker, the worst was still to come. And so began a three-month nightmare, with each man fighting their own private battle before joining forces and uniting as one. It was then the healing had started, and despite the unforeseen challenges they had faced, they had continued to fight through the pain, emerging stronger, wiser, and with their heads held high. Individually, they floundered, but together, they somehow managed to survive. While they had no idea what their future held, they no longer lived in fear of their past. Whatever the outcome of the court case, they would continue to move forward by helping each other over life’s hurdles because unlike so many others, theirs was an eternal love. Together, forever, always, until death do them part, and even then, their souls would reunite, and they would continue their journey as one.

The apology was unexpected, but after digesting the meaning behind the heartfelt words, Booker’s face relaxed into a smile. “Thanks, Doug,” he murmured, “That means a lot.”

Pushing back his chair, Penhall stood up. “Don’t go getting all sappy on me, Booker,” he grinned, the twinkle in his eyes revealing his teasing side. “I still think you’re an asshole.”

With a chuckle, Booker rose to his feet. “You know what, Penhall, I can live with that.”

The two men exchanged an intimate look, and with a companionable nod of their heads, they returned to the party.

**

Tom flopped onto the bed, his long lashes sweeping over his eyes as a small sigh escaped from between the dreamy smile playing over his lips. “That was fun.”

An emotional lump formed in Booker’s throat, but he quickly swallowed it down. It was Tom’s night, and even though the farewell party had marked the end of an era for his lover, it was also the start of new beginnings, and he wasn’t about to ruin it by getting all melancholy. The rest of the night was theirs to enjoy, and he hoped they might pick up where they’d left off, so he could finally shower Tom with the love he deserved.

Kicking off his boots, the dark-haired officer crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees. His body hovered over Tom, the desirous glow in his dark eyes revealing the intensity of his longing, and when his lover beckoned him forward with a slow, inviting smile, he dipped his head and claimed his mouth. The kiss was warm and tender, and when strong arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, he knew he’d received the green light. However, he was careful not to come across too dominant and taking his time, he traced the tip of his tongue along the seam of Tom’s lips, gently caressing before seeking entrance. He was instantly rewarded, and sliding his tongue inside the warm, welcoming mouth, he savored the whiskey flavor infused in Tom’s saliva. When the tip of his lover’s tongue grazed his, he exhaled a low moan, and relaxing his muscles, he melted into Tom’s hard length, his simmering blood lengthening his cock as he sought friction from the warm body below. He could feel his lover’s hardness pressing against him, and the burgeoning ache throbbing through his shaft intensified, demanding satisfaction. It was a hunger unlike any other, a feeding of the soul through touch and taste alone, the sensory feast filling the emptiness inside and setting his skin on fire. Beneath him, Tom’s body writhed, his erection seeking its own reward, and breaking the kiss, Booker gazed down into the face that still managed to send his heart aflutter. 

“Do you wanna get naked, baby?” he whispered, barely daring to hope that this night might be the night they came together as one.

Tom’s eyes shone black, his pupils swamping his brown irises, and without a moment’s hesitation, he nodded his head. “Yes.”

Overcome with emotion, Booker leaned forward and tenderly brushed his lips over Tom’s enticing pout. “God, I love you.”

At that exact moment, Tom knew Booker had made the right choice to spurn his advances in the shower. Everything they had endured during the last three months had been for a reason, each trauma and triumph helping to shape their lives, bringing them together and ultimately leading them to this exact moment in time. It was providential. The Moirai, the ancient white-robed incarnations of destiny, had spun out the thread of his future life, followed his faltering steps, and directed the consequences of his actions according to the counsel of the gods. Booker had started off as his nemesis and through all the twists and turns, had come out the other side his friend, confidante, and lover. What had started out as a horror story was quickly becoming a fairy tale. His prince was about to bestow upon him the ultimate gift, the gift of love, and he was more than ready to accept the present and forget the past. He no longer felt his rape defined him. He was Tom Hanson, son, friend, ex-cop, lover, and survivor, and his life was only just beginning, except this time, he had Dennis Booker by his side.

With a slow, tender smile, Tom brushed a stray strand of hair from Booker’s eyes. He owed his lover so much, and he wanted him to know just how much he adored him. “Not as much as I love you,” he whispered, his dark eyes shining brightly. “You’re my everything.”

“Not gonna waste time arguing,” Booker breathed, his lips trailing soft, wet kisses along the edge of Tom’s chiseled jaw. “I wanna see some flesh.”

A groan rumbled in the back of Tom’s throat, and his heavily-lidded eyes sparkled with arousal. “You first.”

With a mischievous grin, Booker quickly stripped off his clothes. Once naked, he settled himself between Tom’s trembling thighs, his rigid cock protruding proudly from a mass of dark curls, his coal-black eyes shimmering in the light from the bedside lamp. Keen to get things moving, he took hold of Tom’s left ankle and carefully unlaced his boot. It took several tugs to liberate it from Tom’s foot, but once free, he tossed it to the floor, along with his sock. After repeating the process with the right boot and sock, he cradled Tom’s foot in his hand and lightly peppered the sensitive sole with soft kisses before taking the big toe into his mouth and sucking deeply. The bridge of Tom’s nose wrinkled in delight, and his body squirmed beneath the tender ministrations. Grinning against the warm flesh, Booker gently lowered Tom’s leg and turned his attention to the dark blue shirt concealing his lover’s slender torso. With nimble fingers, he popped the buttons one by one, slowly revealing the smooth, taut flesh shrouded beneath. Spreading open the soft folds of material, he ducked his head and licked a wet trail from navel to chest. His tongue flicked over the nub of Tom’s left nipple, teasing it to hardness before he continued his journey back down the canvas of silky skin, leaving a trail of red hickeys in his wake. He traced the contours of Tom’s stomach muscles with his tongue, his light, teasing caresses moving him ever closer to his destination, the scent of sex drawing him in, and when his chin grazed the hard mound of his lover’s erection, he smiled against the warm flesh. Shuffling further down the bed, he mouthed over the enticing bulge, sucking at the abrasive denim, the sensation of Tom’s cock twitching beneath him heightening his own arousal. Long fingers entwined in his hair, silently urging him on, and lifting his head, he suppressed a smile. “Are you trying to tell me something, baby?”

Light sparkled from Tom’s brown eyes, his flushed cheeks giving him an almost angelic appearance. But the breathless words that tumbled from his lips quickly dispelled that image. “I want you to suck me.”

A Cheshire cat grin spread over Booker’s face, and sitting up, he waggled his eyebrows as he popped the button of Tom’s jeans. Beneath him, Tom squirmed, desperate for his lover’s hot mouth to consume him, but Booker ignored him. He wanted the moment to last, and taking his time, he unzipped Tom’s jeans, one agonizingly slow tooth at a time. Once unfastened, Tom decided to speed up the process, and lifting his hips, he shoved down the binding denim. Amused, Booker took his time releasing Tom’s legs, his brows pulled together in mock concentration. He knew he was toying with Tom, but the sexual hunger burning in his lover’s eyes had him savoring every moment. Tom wanted him, he _needed_ him, and Booker was going to make sure every touch, every sound burnt into his memory so he could relive their first time over and over again, until the day he departed life’s mortal coil.

Free from the offending denim, Tom pushed down his boxers, revealing his magnificent erection. Now liberated, it lay flat against his belly, the bubble of pre-cum glistening on the head begging to be licked. Unable to resist the erotic sight, Booker untangled Tom’s legs from his underwear and pressing his tongue against the underside of the hard shaft, he trailed a wet path along his lover’s penile raphe before devouring the saliferous fluid weeping from the shiny head. Once again, long fingers tangled in his hair, rougher this time, pushing him down, the urgency behind the action sending shivers of arousal down Booker’s spine. He was careful not to stimulate Tom too much, and he used his tongue rather than his mouth to caress the hard flesh pushing between his lips. But when another burst of pre-cum danced over his taste buds, he released the swollen member from between his lips and pushed open Tom’s legs. Cupping his lover’s testicles in his hand, he lightly sucked at the soft folds of skin while his index finger moved in soft, feathery strokes over Tom’s perineum, inching ever closer to his anus. When he reached his destination, he gently pressed the tip against the puckered hole without gaining access. Instantly, the muscles in Tom’s body stiffened. It wasn’t an encouraging sign and moving his hand, Booker peered up from between his lover’s legs.

Two dark panicked eyes met his gaze, and sitting up, he reached out and gently caressed Tom’s flushed cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured, regret reflected in his soft brown eyes. “I guess I misread the signals.”

Tom’s lips twitched at the edges, his face flaming a darker shade of red, and taking Booker’s hand in his, he squeezed his fingers. “You didn’t… I mean, I want you to touch me, it’s just, I dunno…” 

His voice trailed off, and averting his gaze, he stared, through tear-filled eyes, at the darkness framed within the bedroom window. Once again, he felt like a prick tease. He’d given Booker false hope… except, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he hadn’t. Deep down inside, he wanted it, more than he’d wanted anything in his life, but the memories of his rape had his body and mind recoiling in fear instead of welcoming Booker’s tender touch with love and trust. It was a question of mind over matter. He either allowed his rape to keep him suspended within a bubble of anxiety, or he broke free and embraced love to the fullest. The choice was his.

With his mind made up, he twisted his body sideways, and opening his bureau drawer, he rummaged around until he found a tube of lubrication and a packaged condom. Although nervous, he felt comfortable with his decision, and closing his fist around the items, he offered them to Booker with a trembling hand. “Here,” he murmured, trust blazing from his dark orbs. “I want you to show me what real love is.” 

A myriad of emotions played over Booker’s face; surprise, disbelief, uncertainty, admiration, until finally, his expression relaxed into one of pure love. With an unsteady hand, he took the proffered supplies and placed them on the mattress. As he caught Tom’s eye, his heart dipped, and he dropped to his hands so he could plant a tender kiss on his lover’s lips. “Are you sure, baby?” he breathed against the plump, inviting flesh. “I don’t want to pressure you.” 

With a shy smile, Tom whispered his answer. “I’m sure.”

Heat flared in the pit of Booker’s stomach, and sitting up, he unscrewed the cap of the small tube, and liberally coated his fingers in the oily substance, his eyes never leaving Tom’s intense gaze. Tossing the lube onto the mattress, he stroked a slick finger up the underside of his lover’s cock. “We’ll take it slow, okay? We can stop any time.”

Cocooned within the tenderness and concern of his lover’s words, Tom nodded. When a finger gently pressed against his opening, he swallowed deeply and concentrating on his breathing, he tried to control his rising panic. But the gentle pressure pushing inside him was nothing like the violence of his rape, and as Booker’s finger inched inside, he focused on the strange sensation. While not the most pleasant feeling, it wasn’t painful, and slowly, his muscles started to relax, allowing his lover easier access.

When Booker felt the tight wall of muscle surrounding his finger loosen, he withdrew the digit to the tip and carefully inserted a second finger. Crooking his middle finger, he expertly found Tom’s prostate and lightly caressed the lobes. Instinctively, Tom’s body bore down, his weight pushing the digit against his gland. A shiver of arousal ran down his spine, and the light flickering in his eyes brightened as a throaty moan escaped his lips. _“Oooh.”_

“Does it feel good, beautiful?” Booker murmured, his eyes gorging on the erotic sight of his fingers moving in and out of his lover’s anus.

“So good,” Tom breathed, his eyes fluttering closed. All memories of his assault had vanished the moment Booker’s fingers stimulated his prostate, and it was then he truly understood the difference between sex and rape. Sexual abuse was all about dominance, whereas the _true_ act of intercourse was the physical practice of intimacy between two consenting adults. Whether it be for love or simply pleasure, there was no connection to the violence he had suffered at the hands of the Pi Taus. Sex and rape were not synonymous, each deed was motivated by conflicting needs; rape by power, and sex by an inherent human yearning. And as his body succumbed to the sensual gratification Booker lovingly bestowed upon him, Tom knew, although he may never completely heal, he was finally at peace with the world. It had taken many months, but he had found the freedom to move forward and start living his life without the baggage of his past weighing him down.

Looking down into Tom’s relaxed face, Booker sensed an inner harmony radiating from within his soul, an aura of calm he hadn’t seen before, and he dared to ask the question. “Do you want me to make love to you, Tommy?”

Tom’s eyelids opened, and gazing up at his lover, he answered without a tremor of hesitation. “Yes.”

A kaleidoscope of passion channeled out through Booker’s eyes. The moment he had dreamed about was finally becoming a reality, and as Tom hurriedly shrugged out of his shirt, he ripped open the condom packet and expertly sheathed his cock. “Lubricate me,” he instructed, his voice husky with emotion. “Make me nice and slick.”

Eager to please, Tom squirted a generous dollop of oil into his palm and liberally coated his lover’s erection. The feel of delicate fingers moving over his aching shaft was almost Booker’s undoing, and biting down on his lower lip, he concentrated on not blowing his load. Once satisfied, Tom spread his legs and raised his knees to his chest. Gazing up at Booker with large, innocent eyes, his abdomen rose and fell as he drew in slow, shallow breaths, his body trembling with longing. The time had come, and he was ready.

Booker's eyes soaked up the wondrous sight laid out before him. It was incredibly erotic, yet ever so trusting, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “Oh, baby,” he whispered. “You are so fucking beautiful.”

Another shy smile graced Tom’s lips, and pulling his lover forward, he kissed him tenderly. “Make love to me,” he breathed.

Love shone from Booker’s eyes, and bracing his left hand against the firm mattress, he used his right hand to guide his erection until the tip pressed against Tom’s anus. “I love you,” he murmured, and taking a deep breath, he pushed inside.

The exquisite sensation of a thick cock filling the emptiness inside him was unlike anything Tom had ever experienced. A fiery heat spread over his naked flesh, the intense gratification awakening every nerve from head to toe. He had never felt more alive, more in tune with his own body, and he physically ached for what he knew would be the best sex of his life.

With a tenderness born from experience and understanding, Booker slowly rocked his hips forward and backward, the gentle force stimulating his lover’s prostate. His lovemaking was considerate yet passionate, restrained yet evocative, and he basked in the sensation of his slick cock sliding in and out of Tom's tight anus. The erogenous titillation wasn't just physical, it was emotional too because he was finally with the man he adored, and he knew whatever happened, theirs was a love that would never die.

As the tip of Booker’s penis continued to graze his prostate, it didn't take long for Tom to succumb to his lover's tender ministrations. Pre-cum wept from his cock, and overcome with emotion, he grasped hold of his lover’s upper arms, his nails biting into the tanned flesh. “Oh, Dennis… harder… oh God, it feels so… oh… harder… harder… harder!”

At the sound of his name, Booker’s gentle pushes became an uncontrolled piston of frantic thrusts, the upward motion forcing his cock deeper inside his lover’s inner sanctum. Tom’s buttocks bounced against the mattress, the forward momentum propelling his body back and forth in rhythm to Booker’s lovemaking. Every inch of him screamed to be touched, his nerves singing a high-pitched song of lust, and want, and need. Unsatisfied, his arms wrapped around his lover’s neck, forcefully pulling him down until he lay on top of him, their sweat-soaked chests sliding against each other, melding their bodies as one. They found each other’s mouths, teeth clashing, tongues plundering, their animalistic instincts taking control. The friction of Booker’s belly rubbing against his cock had Tom moaning into the cavernous mouth devouring him, the double stimulation pushing him to the brink, and with a full body tremor, his testicles elevated, and he ejaculated, coating both their chests in his saliferous fluid.

Breaking the kiss, Booker’s dark eyes locked on Tom, and with one final thrust, his back arched, and with a long drawn out moan, he too, shuddered out his release.

The scent of sex filled the room, adding weight to the stuffy atmosphere, the only sound, the labored gasps of both men echoing off the walls in faltering discord as they each struggled to catch their breath. It was a song of fulfillment, the primordial pant of their ancestors, and eventually, their breathing fell into rhythm, once again uniting them as one. 

Gently disengaging, Booker pulled Tom into his arms. “Happy?” he asked, as he lovingly sucked his lover’s kiss-swollen lips.

“Perfectly,” Tom breathed with a contented sigh before pulling away and staring at Booker with worried eyes. “Are you?”

A slow loving smile tugged at the corners of Booker’s lips. “Baby, I’ve never been happier.”

Satisfied, Tom closed his eyes, safe in the knowledge he was loved by the man he adored. He had no idea what the future held, nor did he want to, but what he did know for certain was he would not have to walk it alone.


	60. Epilogue

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35161762513/in/album-72157686234243026/)

**Eighteen months later**

A lone figure climbed the wide sweeping steps of the imposing white building, his destination, the courthouse, where he eagerly anticipated his reunion with the men who had transformed his life. He’d changed a lot since that fateful day in the Pi Tau basement. Gone were his outdated horn-rimmed glasses, replaced with a simple black frame that complimented his delicate features. His pale-blue eyes still appeared huge behind his black-rimmed spectacles, but the timid countenance that once emanated from them had vanished. In its place, an air of confidence radiated from within, a halo of light illuminating the face of the proud man who had finally found his niche in life. Having broken away from the tyrannical cycle of abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his father and grandfather, he’d risen to dizzying heights, and much to his surprise, he’d become a popular student among his peers. For the first time in his life, he was socially accepted, and he knew a lot of it had to do with Dennis and Tom. His two friends, had, in their own way, displayed levels of courage far beyond the realms of most men, and by example, their fortitude had given him the strength to break free from the shackles that bound him, releasing him into the wilds of the unknown. It hadn’t been easy, the years of emotional isolation had left invisible scars, making it difficult for him to feel at ease in the company of others. But little by little, he’d conquered his fears. Harold Horshack was a new man, and one day, he would prove his worth by leaving an indelible mark on the world.

When he reached the pillared entrance to the courthouse, Harold approached the two men waiting at the top. The three friends exchanged a silent hello, their non-verbal communication saying more than words could ever express. During the countless hours spent together, preparing Tom’s case, their friendship had solidified, and they were forever bound by the unbreakable bond of brotherhood. From the outside, it was an unusual association, but for each man, there was a mutual respect, and their solidarity and admiration bound them together. _Sodalitas ante omnia._ Brotherhood above all else. It was their motto for life.

From below, Jorge and Lupita appeared, their ascent of the steps impeded by Lupita’s heavily pregnant belly. A loving smile tilted Booker’s lips. Through all his adversity, Jorge had managed to find a special someone to give him the love and attention he so desperately craved, and although surprised he had chosen a woman, the dark-haired officer’s happiness was genuine. The young couple deserved a life free from the abuse that had ultimately brought them together, and he hoped their relationship would work, despite their tender years. Theirs was a story not dissimilar to his and Tom’s, and his heart dipped with emotion. Tom was his everything, and turning toward his lover, he placed a tender kiss on his lips. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

Adoration shone from Tom’s eyes, and taking hold of Booker’s hand, he gently squeezed his fingers. “You tell me every day.”

Love softened the lines around Booker’s eyes. “That’s ‘cause it’s true.”

Wrapping his arms around Booker’s waist, Tom leaned against his lover’s muscular body. The day had come when he would finally face his attackers in court, and despite his nerves, he was ready. His life had taken several twists and turns during the past eighteen months, but after making the decision to become a rape crisis counselor, he had enrolled in college and was laboring his way through a four-year bachelor degree in social work. He’d taken to college like a duck to water, and although intellectually demanding, he was enjoying the challenge. In typical Booker fashion, the dark-haired officer had offered to support him during his study, but Tom had refused, preferring to take on a part-time job at the local bowling alley. That way, he could at least pretend he was contributing to the household expenses. His pay wasn’t much, but his pride wouldn’t have it any other way. Booker had sacrificed so much for him, and he wanted to give something in return, so once again, he could feel like his equal.

As Jorge and Lupita approached, Booker pressed his lips against Tom’s ear. “Ready, baby?”

Lifting his head, Tom gifted his lover with a smile. From beneath a heart of darkness, a light now shone, the luminous path leading him toward his salvation. Whatever happened, he was confident he would walk from the trial with his head held high, free in the knowledge his story had been told.

With a nod of his head, he turned, and with his four friends by his side, he walked the last few steps of the long road toward justice.

_Finis_

**NOTE: NEW STORY COMING SOON!**


End file.
